


i might only have one match but i can make an explosion

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character Death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plotty, Politics, Queen Sansa, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 105,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I dreamt of a maid at a feast with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow.</em><br/><br/>Trying to get back to Winterfell, Sansa collects a Sand, a Prince of Dorne, and her brother's crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the amazing Sansa/Oberyn fics in the tag made me want to write my own. Thanks for checking it out!

“This way, we must away, quickly now, have no fear.”

Sansa hurries after Dontos, heart thundering in her chest as loudly as the tolling bells. She covers her hair when he asks, holding one hand to her hood to keep it in place. Fear spirals after her as she and her Florian make their way to a ladder, then a bluff, breathing in sea air as if it will be the last she ever tastes. _Will this be so_? She wonders, swallowing her panic. No. It mustn't. Dontos promised.

Sansa's huffing and puffing knight guides her to a skiff, where a man waits, idly tapping his fingers on his knees.

"Ser Daemon," she whispers. She doesn't remember seeing him at wedding. He didn't see Joffrey's wheezes, nor his awful face—

He twitches a finger to his lips, and gestures for them to come aboard. Sansa scurries, Dontos waddles, and once they are sitting comfortably, Daemon begins to row. Sansa watches their progress past the sunken ships of Stannis Baratheon's ill fated fleet, brimming with curiosity. Her heart skips and stumbles rather than thunders as she tries to puzzle out what motive Ser Daemon possesses to spirit her away from Joff's wedding day-turned-death day. _My claim_ , she thinks. Of course. Though this Dornishman has less of a chance than the Lannisters to hold it. Bastards require legitimization to inherit anything legally, and even then, must come after all trueborn siblings...

"Smile, sweetling," Dontos says, swaying in his seat and stinking of wine. "Your fool has saved you." He hiccups.

Sansa's attempted smile is pitiful, apparently, for it makes Ser Daemon grimace in sympathy. She lets herself think it is sympathy.

"Quiet, ser," Daemon tells him, drawing the oars close to his chest for the umpteenth time. His breath is even. "We are at risk yet."

Dontos obeys, as does Sansa. If she does whatever Ser Daemon asks, perhaps that will curry his favor. Joff liked her compliance.

The bells toll, Dontos hiccups, Daemon rows, and Sansa sits in silence, watching the lapping of the waves against their tiny skiff.

She chances a question once the city seems distant and asks if Ser Daemon intends to ferry them all the way across the narrow sea. Dontos shakes his head like a waterlogged dog, about to chastise her, but Ser Daemon's smile flashes like lightning in the moonlight.

"Home, my lady. To Winterfell."

Now a veteran in a war of false promises and misleading smiles, Sansa isn't appeased, but she lets herself be relieved when the skiff finally reaches its larger partner, if only for the mystery of her escape to be revealed. Dontos climbs the ladder first, and waits at the top for Sansa as he did only hours earlier. Once the sailors are occupied with raising the skiff onto the deck and setting sail, Daemon escorts Sansa to the biggest cabin.

"I'll be just outside," Dontos promises. His promises have all held true, save for the deception of her hairnet and its amethysts from Asshai. Still, Sansa reasons with familiar resignation, her Florian is the only man who's kept his word to her. All the rest are dead.

With a deep breath as the door shuts behind her, Sansa spins on her heel to find...

Ellaria Sand. Sansa closes her mouth lest she look as ridiculous as Moon Boy, though Ellaria smiles, and extends a hand.

"Sit, my lady, if it please you. We have must to discuss."

* * *

"Forgive me for the duplicity, Lady Sansa," Ellaria says after Sansa has perched on a rickety chair. "We thought it best if you were smuggled out as soon as possible." Sansa's eyes were drawn to her in King's Landing. They remain on her again, searching in vain for a hint of Ellaria's intentions. All Sansa finds are the elegant silks the Dornish favored, and a beautiful woman with an enigmatic smile.

"We?" Sansa repeats.

"Prince Oberyn and myself."

The combination is bewildering. Sansa closes her mouth again, trying to put it all together. That explains Ser Daemon Sand, who arrived for Joffrey's wedding with all the other Dornishmen. It _doesn't_ explain the prince and his paramour's enormous risk in getting her out of the capital. Sansa's stomach gives a twist as she jumps to the worst conclusion. _Do they mean to give me to Ilyn Payne_?

"Why?" Sansa asks, finally.

Ellaria curls a finger around the rim of her cup, a crease between her eyebrows. After a moment, Sansa has her answer.

"For your gentle heart, my lady."

It's Sansa's turn to crinkle her brow in thought. An instinct to lie has her at a crossroads. She agrees, somewhat—King's Landing has brought her nothing but blood and tears and so much _pain_. Agreeing with Ellaria Sand's assessment is very much what she should do, what a girl of a dead, treasonous family _must_ do to guarantee another day, another hour. But...she can't quite give up yet. There's a terrible part of her that exulted when Joffrey _kof_ , _kof_ , _kof_ 'd his way to an early grave. The same part seized her with anger on the Traitor's Walk, when Joffrey showed her father's head and Septa Mordane's on spikes. She nearly pushed him off the walkway and didn't care if she would go down with him because then she would be with Father and Lady and her sweet septa. Later still, when Joffrey received a chalice from Mace Tyrell as a wedding gift, she wished that Joff would break his neck whilst trying to carry it.

 _Gentle_ , she thinks, stricken with grief. _No._

"My heart isn't very gentle," says Sansa. Ellaria smiles, soft. Sansa won't sink into it, won't lower her guard. The queen's smiles were soft. Margaery's are even softer, with beautiful eyes and hair and lips and laughter to match. Pretty smiles never bode well for her.

"No longer, I take it?"

 _You have a good heart, my lady_ , Lady Tanda said, as dozens of guests were fleeing. Sansa doubts it.

"No."

"You are like my prince in that way," Ellaria muses, tracing her cup again. "After he lost his sister."

Elia, Sansa's mind supplies, though her stone and steel heart goes to her own sister, long lost. Maester Luwin spoke delicately of the Rebellion, and never in Father's hearing, but Sansa's snooping in the library and patient ears for the truth gave way. Rhaegar stole her aunt, the king murdered Sansa's uncle and grandfather, and poor Elia Martell was caught in the path of the approaching Lannisters.

 _Just like me_ , Sansa thinks. Only Princess Elia had no drunkard Florian to whisk her and her children away from harm.

"Is that why?" Sansa ventures, smoothing out her cloak. The real answer waits, patiently. "He—the prince...he saved me."

A prettier picture than the more likely possibility of the Dornish being her new captors.

"As did I," Ellaria says, twisting a beguiling smile behind her hand and making her voice playfully indignant. The mirth _is_ charming, Sansa observes. "He's already _so_ arrogant. We'll share the credit, my lady, lest Oberyn's head swell _almost_ as big as Lord Tyrell's."

Sansa can't quite hide the twitch of her lips and temptation to smile, though she tries. It's easy to set it aside for graver matters, as much as she wants to laugh with Ellaria, and recline just as comfortably. She smooths her cloak again, searching for words.

"What brought Ser Dontos to you?"

Ellaria dims her amusement, as Sansa did. "Our spy at court. She found your knight, gibbering about repaying a debt to you."

That isn't out of the ordinary. The more Dontos drank, the looser his tongue. Tonight, he was only slightly more sober than usual. Sansa counts it a boon of the old gods that Dontos only spoke of her escape in the godswood, where it was safe from unkind ears.

"She?" Sansa questions, catching her hand on the arm of her chair for balance as the ship rocks over larger waves. This is the ship she wanted to bring her home, not the mummer's hairnet, but like the gift it's Ellaria and the other passengers she is unsure of.

"That tottering terror no one is fond of. The Lady Olenna."

* * *

It takes a little time to wrap her head around it all. Dontos promised her freedom _before_ the Tyrells came to King's Landing, before they even joined forces with the Lannisters, so Olenna's interest is untimely. There's a man in the middle, Ellaria explains, filling in the blanks of the story, connecting Sansa's suspicion to truths doled out now. Lord Varys is the intermediary, Sansa learns, unsure if this is good news. Of course. Even the queen complained about Varys's little birds, who saw and heard everything in the Red Keep. Sansa's secret meetings in the godswood were for naught, then, if Varys pulled the strings of her sweet Florian. What does _he_ want of her?

"Lord Varys serves the realm, my lady," Ellaria admits. "Make no mistake of that. With you, however, he made an exception."

"Why?" Sansa asks again. The grisly wedding still has her numb about the ears—Ellaria's words approach her slowly, dreamily.

"In admiration of your lord father, or so the Spider tells me. Even in Dorne we heard of Ned Stark's honor."

Sansa holds her tongue, remembering another piece of the Rebellion. Father fought the Targaryens, Martells, and other sworn families at the Trident. Her families on one side, Ellaria's chosen one on the other. She hesitates, unsure of how to advance in a game she never wanted to play. "His admiration comes rather late," Sansa murmurs, settling for neutral ground. Her septa would be proud.

Ellaria shocks her with a smile.

"Better late than never, Lady Sansa."

Sansa gets the rest in small portions, accompanied by a plate of strawberries to nibble on. Lord Varys employed Dontos, Ellaria elaborates, sharing Sansa's mislike of the slices of pomegranate left by the cook. Lady Olenna made arrangements to divert attention from Sansa's escape, confirming the sickening truth of her hairnet and Dontos's lies. _The amethysts aren't magic. They are the Red Viper's tools._ "They will suspect me," Sansa points out, unhappily. She tried so hard to be loyal, even to the golden boy she once thought she loved. Everyone saw. Even if accepting Lord Tyrion's embarrassed, reluctant, and _public_ marriage proposal made her sick to her stomach. Their wedding was to follow Joffrey and Margaery's after being deemed unworthy to usher in the new century.

"And your betrothed," Ellaria adds, though the comment troubles her. Sansa listens closely. "My prince admires Lord Tyrion. He has his father's cleverness but none of his cruelty. And like you, Varys wants to spare Tyrion Lannister if possible, despite his family name."

Varys never acted against the Lannisters. His crooning words when Sansa pleaded for Father were of little use, and made her feel stupid, but she remembers how _frantic_ he looked when Joffrey demanded Father's head off. Why feign that, in front of everyone?

"Lord Varys waved his arms," Sansa says, distantly, as a new clarity finds her. "Before Father died. He wanted it to stop."

"He did. Your father was innocent, as the Usurper was not."

Ellaria doesn't join Sansa in the next chair, but it feels as though she does, just as her gaze feels as though it touches Sansa's cheek.

"Lord Varys, Lady Olenna, the prince, and myself happen to share the same goal, Lady Sansa. We all want you to be safe."

Safe. _Home_. Winterfell was once safe. It isn't now, but Sansa longs to see it again. She doesn't need to search hard for the feeling of its warmth, or the sound of Bran's laughter echoing down the corridors. The swish of Mother's gowns, the thundering of Arya's boots (even if ladies must _always_ step quietly, Jory teased). Rickon's giggles whenever they snuck off to the kitchens to beg for lemoncakes from Gage, the clatter of Robb and Jon's swords in the yard, with the crack of Ser Rodrik's commands in the air. Father's stern silence, somehow loud in its noiselessness (but his smiles came next). She can hear Jeyne's whispers, _see_ the twist of Beth's auburn curls over her sewing as she leans over to fix something Septa Mordane has pointed out. Old Nan's endless stories before bed—even the stories Sansa never wanted to hear, with the wargs and the giants. Sansa even misses Theon's sideways smile, one of the fixtures of Winterfell.

The four of them sound like the Seven, Sansa notes, half a mind to embrace Ellaria for it. Varys, the Stranger. Olenna, the Crone. The prince, an image of the Warrior. Ellaria, a definitive Mother, the epitome of mercy. Is that what they mean to give Sansa, finally? Mercy?

"Why?" She asks again, unable to dredge out the hoarseness from her voice. It's too much, so much after an endless day of unhappiness. The tolling bells and Joffrey's coughs still linger in her head, twisting in her hair and curling around her ears like snakes.

Ellaria deflects again, but her smile is the kindest Sansa has seen in ages. "I saw your sadness, my lady. When every lady in that sorry excuse for a city smiled when that little tyrant spoke, you never did." This time, she does stand and find a seat beside Sansa, looking a bit rueful. Sansa watches, curious. "I am a Sand, Lady Sansa, but a Uller through my father, too. They say the Ullers are half-mad, did you know? Half-mad and the others much worse. When I saw your sadness, all I wanted to do was send it away, and make you smile."

* * *

After a sleepless night and a light breakfast, Ellaria invites Ser Daemon and a man who Ellaria introduces as Ser Ulwyck to the cabin.

"My lady," Ser Ulwyck greets, joining Ellaria at the desk.

Ser Daemon unfurls a map. Sansa smooths the page on one side to keep it spread flat, fingers pressing down on Duskendale.

"We'll reach the Bay of Crabs within a week, if the wind holds," Daemon says. Sansa follows his gesture along the coast with her eyes.

"If pirates don't get us," Ulwyck points out, dryly. "Or Stannis Baratheon's fleet."

"What fleet?" Daemon quips. Ellaria waves this away.

"Oberyn intends to meet us in Harroway, sers. The question now is where to land."

"Maidenpool," Daemon offers, just as Ulwyck grunts, "the Quiet Isle."

As Ellaria considers this, Sansa plucks up the courage to interrupt.

"The Quiet Isle?"

"A refuge, my lady," Ellaria's uncle answers, sounding sure as Sansa in the maze of Winterfell's courtyards. "For servants of the Faith."

Sansa likens him to the Father, the seeker of justice. She moves the direwolf piece closer to the mouth of the bay, seeing Ellaria smile in her periphery. "The Isle will be safer. And..." She fiddles with the piece, now a symbol of _her_. "They won't care to recognize me."

"Randyll Tarly has Maidenpool, boy," Ulwyck reminds Daemon, scowling. "We'll need to pass it."

Sansa studies the map, armed with more questions than answers. They mean to gain entry into the Riverlands and escort her home, but the road to Winterfell seems longer than it ever has, longer than the journey in the other direction with Father, Arya, King Robert...

Robb and Mother died at the Twins, so the Freys will not protect her. Sansa traces the two castles of the Trident with her fingers, forcing down a terrible anger. Robb was meant to save her, not _die_. And Mother—how they defiled her and the Tullys, throwing her body in the river. _It's treason to love a traitor_ , she once told Tyrion, but how could Sansa not? She loved Mother and Robb and Arya and Father and her brothers and half brother and now all of them, all of her family and friends were dead save for Jon at the Wall.

Ulwyck and Daemon are still arguing by the time Sansa composes herself. Ellaria listens absently, eyes flitting to Sansa occasionally.

"We should make for Riverrun," Ulwyck snaps. "The Blackfish holds it. Her mother's uncle."

"Not the Vale, with Lady Sansa's _aunt_?" Daemon shoots back. "Lysa Arryn, if you remember. The widow with a sitting army?"

"Aunt, uncle—what does it matter?" says Ulwyck. "No one passes through Bloody Gate. It took a damn dragon to fly _over_ it."

"We need Lady Arryn."

"We need a _soldier_. The Blackfish fought the Ninepenny Kings, like I did. He was Stark's Warden of the Riverlands."

"We need to ask Lady Sansa," Ellaria interrupts, raising a hand to bat the Dornishmen away from each other, "for _her_ counsel."

The men look to her, though nothing strikes Sansa with inspiration and she sits back an inch, flustered. She has no head for battles, and less of strategy. _Maybe if Arya were here, she could_...Sansa lowers her eyes to the map, struggling to remember how Father acted if given petitions. He listened to them all, patient, always very serious. His judgments came after careful thought, and never quickly.

"What can you tell me about the Trident?" Sansa asks, deflecting as Ellaria did, wanting enough facts first. "Then the Vale."

Ser Daemon answers, drawing a finger to each of the forks in turn: Red, Green, and Blue. The Tumblestone of the westerlands and the Trident meet at the Red Fork, making it a deep river but not _swift_ —it meanders, with islands and sandbars and loops and bends. The Red Fork is both a crossing and a wartime barrier. Daemon moves on to the Green Fork, which is swampy and closest to the Twins (farthest from their current position), so Sansa disregards it for the moment. The Blue Fork sits near Fairmarket, although the marshy terrain and combined threat of outlaws and Freys makes Sansa mislike it. Daemon draws Sansa's attention eastward, mapping out the Vale. The Bloody Gate protects the Eyrie and bars invaders from safety after a perilous journey through the Mountains of the Moon.

 _Difficult_ , Ulwyck's expression seems to say.

Sansa studies the map. They can sail _past_ the Vale, the Fingers, and the Three Sisters, straight into White Harbor. It's tempting. _But_...Sansa realizes, eyebrows knitting together. _That won't do._ That leaves the prince and his host stranded in Harroway and surrounded by the Lannisters and Freys, while Sansa's column is alone, above the Neck (with Moat Cailin held by the ironborn). The Manderlys are Stark bannermen, but how many Manderlys died with Robb? The North is in Lord Bolton's hands now, by the talk.

"There's always the ruby ford," Ulwyck adds, interrupting Sansa's reverie.

"We should go to the Red Fork," Sansa suggests, taking a deep breath. "And...see if we can contact Ser Brynden, discreetly."

"And if we can't?" Ser Daemon asks, favoring the alternative option.

Sansa moves the direwolf north, beyond the Twins. "Then we risk the Green Fork and go to the Neck," she tells them. "To Greywater Watch." She chances a smile, thinking of the days of travel, rumbling down the causeway through the bogs. Arya found thirty-six flowers she had never seen before, Sansa remembers with a heavy heart. Her and that butcher's boy. "Did you know the castle moves?"

* * *

The voyage has Sansa clinging to the railing, sick. The Dornishmen are kind enough to ignore it, and mind even less answering her questions about their progress. They pass Rosby and Duskendale without incident; Driftmark and Dragonstone slip by with the crew on tenterhooks due to their proximity to Stannis Baratheon and his mercenary fleet. Sansa watches the forests of Crackclaw Point sail past as she takes note of the other passengers. Ellaria, herself, Sers Ulwyck and Daemon, Dontos nursing a bad belly belowdecks. The others are strangers, though Sansa learns their names quickly—Dickon Manwoody, Ser Deziel Dalt, Ben Gargalen, Joss Hood, Ser Qoren Sand. No heirs except Ser Deziel, she observes, and more Sands than anyone else. The rest of the group adds twenty-five men, a maid, squires and guards and scouts and men-at-arms and spearmen, along with the sailors on the vessel.

Ellaria joins Sansa at the prow, wearing a roughspun dress much like Sansa's. The men wear soft leather, brown and undecorated.

"This is mad," Sansa mumbles, queasy. "Thirty men to take Winterfell?" To battle enemies in the Riverlands, to protect Sansa?

"My prince brings more. And himself, easily worth ten men."

At Sansa's doubtful look, Ellaria elaborates, wise as the Rainbow Knight's Lady Shella. "We'll find more men, my lady. Our spies report unrest under these lions and Freys." She twitches a hand at that. "The river lords will join us, and then the northmen. All for you."

It isn't comforting. "They'll suffer." _And all for me_ , Sansa thinks, unhappily.

"For a noble cause, Lady Sansa," says Ellaria, inviting her to the railing that overlooks the deck. "These men volunteered."

" _What_?"

"Ser Deziel," Ellaria calls, beckoning the knight to them. When he's close enough, Ser Deziel does a small bow, smiling all the while.

"Tell Lady Sansa why you joined us."

Ser Deziel of Lemonwood looks a little mischievous, but there's something sincere in his face that reminds Sansa of Robb, however vaguely. He's earnest, now, matching his face to his words and tone. "Honor, of course. No true knight allows the innocent to suffer."

Ellaria flicks a lazy finger. "And?"

Ser Deziel touches his left shoulder. "I swore in the name of the Maid to protect all women, my lady, yourself included."

Sansa inhales a breath as Ser Deziel returns to the circle of gambling men below, unsure of how to take the matter to heart. Ellaria, the still unmet Prince Oberyn, Sers Daemon, Deziel, and Ulwyck, even sweet Dontos...all they want to do is _help_. It's baffling. It's gladdening and maddening. It's...painful. She wants to seize them all by the hands and thank them profusely, just as much as she wants to push them away for their own safety. A handful of strangers are doing more than anyone in King's Landing has done for her since Father died.

Sansa wants to believe them. Trust them. She learned too late that trusting the Lannisters was folly; trusting the Tyrells rewarded her only after a terrible price. Freedom for a brand of _kingslayer_. She hesitates, resolving to keep a close eye on her Martell sworn swords. They speak kindly, but behave like Elinor and Megga and Alla, with dreams of songs and stories. Have any of them seen a man die?

"I don't know what to say," is what Sansa settles for, trying to steer her thoughts into untroubled waters.

"Say nothing," Ellaria suggests, a playful glint in her eye. "Be imperious. Stern and haughty, like those ladies at court."

"They aren't stern," says Sansa, unable to hide an unwilling smile. Ellaria laughs, mischievous as Ser Deziel.

"Not to _you_ , my lady."

The queen didn't like Ellaria or the Dornish, Sansa remembers, an expert on deciphering the cues of Cersei Lannister. She sat the prince's party on the dais at Joffrey's wedding for the sake of etiquette, but a spiteful hairsbreadth from the salt. And _far_ from the Tyrells, Sansa realizes in hindsight. _A charade that worked in their favor_ , Sansa thinks, recalling Shae's gossip of Lady Olenna and Ellaria's spat in the yard, the death of a Tyrell man-at-arms, and the scalding of Lord Gargalen's. Sansa reflects on the animosity with new eyes. Dorne and the Reach, always at odds. Margaery's grandmother and Oberyn and even Lord Varys took advantage. _Clever._

Cersei treated Ellaria like a bastard. Like how Mother treated Jon, how Sansa treated Jon. A flush climbs up Sansa's neck.

"They are rather awful," Sansa admits. _If I ever see Jon again..._

"Peace, Lady Sansa," Ellaria says, placing one hand over Sansa's knuckles. "This is the way of the world. Outside of Dorne, that is."

Sansa turns her hand, palm up, until Ellaria's fingers interlace with hers and looks the other woman in the eye, making her voice firm.

"It won't be that way in Winterfell. Not when it's my home again." _Father never treated bastards unkindly._ Heartlessly. _Nor will I_.

They smile at each other. Sansa breaks the spell with a glance to the lower decks, crowded with friendly, courteous Dornishmen.

"Can you introduce me again? I want to get to know them—properly."

 _These men are mine. I will do right by them_ , she thinks, _on my honor as a Stark_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate all the kind words! Again, thanks for reading, and enjoy!

As the ship rounds the peninsula of Crackclaw Point and enters the Bay of Crabs with a storm at its heels, Sansa dedicates her attention to acquainting herself with the crew. These men and women took up arms for her; every one of them deserves Sansa's respect. Her own lord father invited anyone to his table, alternating which servant had the honor. Her lady mother knew her staff well and managed Winterfell ably.

The _Vaith's Vixen_ isn't Winterfell, but Sansa makes do.

Maester Cedrik has a youthful air to him. Ser Ulwyck is gruff but well meaning, reminding Sansa wistfully of Ser Rodrik. Qoren Sand sings the sweet songs, Tristifer Toland the bawdy ones. Joss Hood has a gimlet eye for Ben Gargalen, but cheerful asides for Sansa. Dickon Manwoody has Podrick Payne's stammering deference. Gwen of the Greenblood, Ellaria's maid now shared by Sansa, has a habit of climbing into the crow's nest in annoyance when the men's gambling gets out of hand. Corenna Sand, the captain, shows Sansa her charts, astrolabe, and Myrish eye for observing the sea, sun, and stars. Ser Deziel teases Sansa with a standing invitation to Lemonwood, once he finds about her adoration for lemoncakes. Ser Daemon flirts outrageously with Ellaria and Ben Gargalen, showing dimples if his overtures are reciprocated. Ellaria tends to hold Sansa's attention the longest, a beautiful enigma with wit as sharp as Valyrian steel unless she deigns to share a story, usually of her daughters or Prince Oberyn. That binds the crew together, Sansa sees—the love of their prince and House Martell.

When Sansa finds time, she visits Dontos belowdecks, who takes to life at sea just as poorly as Sansa did, initially.

In the mornings, Sansa breaks her fast on a deck overlooking the mast, and watches the men train. The Dornish favor spears and shortswords, though Sansa spots double curved bows, battle axes, and longswords among the supply. Corenna Sand swings a morningstar whenever she joins the men. None of them have the suits of shining armor the Kingsguard and Ser Loras are so fond of.

"Armor slows us down, my lady," Ellaria explains. "In Dorne, our armor and ally is the sun." 

She flicks a finger to Ser Daemon, who's fletching a quiver of arrows below. "Look at Ser Daemon, and tell me what you see."

"No armor," Sansa says, just as understanding dawns. Ser Daemon could be _anyone_ if he wears a helm, or even a half-helm. Thinking through the rest, Sansa settles for the obvious, noting the lack of a knight's most important identifier. "He doesn't wear a sigil."

"He won't be discovered in the Riverlands. Neither will we, my lady, in these woolen dresses. I see your worries, Lady Sansa," Ellaria adds, to Sansa's chagrin. She thought her cataloguing of armament, men, and the ship's progress along the coast was _discreet_. "And I understand them," Ellaria continues, gently, unraveling Sansa's armor of courtesy as if it's made of the thinnest of threads. Sansa sets to stitching it back up again, wanting the security of her poise. "But these men have trained well. They know the odds. My prince knows the odds, only too well. He isn't afraid of the trouble it will take to bring you home, because he sees what these butcher kings cannot."

"Which is?"

"Undermining a conquest is much easier than starting one. You remember our talk of the Young Dragon, I trust?"

 _One of Jon's favorite stories_. "I do," says Sansa. The difference between now and then is staggering—that was the morning of Joffrey's wedding, when all Sansa could think about was marrying Tyrion Lannister in a fortnight and fretting over Margaery marrying Joffrey in less than an hour. Prince Oberyn and Lord Tyrion bickered over the book Joffrey sliced in half, while Ellaria's presence ( _almost a princess_ , Shae said, answering the question of Ellaria's place on Oberyn's arm) drew Sansa out of her own misery for a short time. 

"Then you remember how quickly the Conquest of Dorne unraveled. A fortnight, thanks to vengeful Dornish lords and a canopy of scorpions."

A canopy of scorpions and Dornish subjects who took advantage of their surroundings, a land they knew well and King Daeron's men didn't. Ellaria and Sansa's dresses and Daemon Sand's unadorned clothes registers again, colored in a new light. If they move as a small group, they'll hide themselves easily. Without a sigil, cumbersome armor, or even a vanguard, they'll attract less attention on the way to Winterfell. Then, with Ser Brynden Tully's assistance from Riverrun, their column becomes a brigade, providing more men to defend each other to combat the higher risk of discovery. Sansa squirms. The odds Ellaria spoke of tilt away from them, regardless of her assurances. What will stop a Lannister host from cutting down every single one of Sansa's protectors? What will stop them from hurting _her_?

"Prince Oberyn wants us to travel as Dornishmen do," she guesses, hesitantly, trying to school her expression into one of neutrality, in spite of Ellaria Sand's talent for seeing through Sansa's courtesies. No one can take Sansa's _manners_ away from her, even if Joffrey ran afoul of her again and again, even if his mother turned her warm words into cold malice, even if they murdered her family. "And"—Sansa settles for the obvious again, weary of old pains made fresh—"undo everything the Lannisters have done." _Not everything_ , she wants to say, thinking of the way Father's head looked when she was forced to look at it, of the way her hopes died one by one by one.

"Your brother's kingdom suffers as Dorne did," says Ellaria, bold as brass. "Joffrey's conquest will end just the same, my lady."

Sansa once prayed for his sword to shatter and his courage to fail him. The gods rewarded her with whispers from the servants of the king's cowardice during the siege, forcing his uncle to step up in his place. Dying at his own wedding seemed to Sansa like another boon, though it was Robb she wept for in her escape. _Is that the way of things_? Sansa wonders. Robb's quest to avenge Father and save her, then his death. Joffrey's cruelty, then his death. The Young Dragon wanted to crush Dorne but brought his own death instead. _All kings do as of late is get crowned and conquer and die_ , Sansa thinks, gloomily. And their mothers? Their queens?

Sansa thinks of Cersei's wailing as Joffrey clawed at his throat like they say Mother raked her nails down her face, her own son stolen from her.

She thinks of Margaery's tears and dreams of becoming queen, and that Westerling girl from the Crag that Robb had married.

The queens weep and the mothers grieve, while the realm waits for the next man. And the sisters of kings...Myrcella lives in Dorne with her betrothed, Sansa is away at last from King's Landing, guarded by a score of new friends. Rhaena, Daena, and Elaena outlived the Young Dragon himself. Visenya, outlasted even Aegon the Conqueror. Queen Rhaella escaped the Mad King and fled to Dragonstone.

 _The sisters live_ , Sansa decides, hope blooming slowly and delicately, like the blue winter roses of Winterfell.

* * *

The _Vixen_ approaches the mouth of the Trident with renewed caution.

"We aren't flying a banner," Ser Ulwyck explains, quietly, serving as her guard in the captain's cabin. "That invites questions."

Sansa considers for a moment. "They'll think we're pirates." Even ships from the Free Cities fly identification over their masts.

"That or rebels. Pardons, my lady."

Sansa doesn't dwell on it. She called Robb and Mother rebels and traitors so often, the words now feel meaningless.

She joins Ulwyck at the window, wanting a look of Maidenpool. Florian spied on Jonquil and her sisters here when they were bathing, Sansa remembers. It looks less like a song now, to her disappointment, spotting glimpses of devastation beyond the pink walls on the shore. Houses stand but sag as half burned husks. Smoke rises farther inland, a wispy grey instead of the black fog left by the Blackwater's wildfire.

"The town's been sacked a few times," Ser Ulwyck tells her. "Lannisters, northmen, outlaws. Tarly's trying to rebuild it."

"We're avoiding him," Sansa prompts, remembering Ulwyck's insistence. He nods, pointing out distant banners for Sansa to name.

House Bettley, she identifies, squinting to make out the blue beetles on gold. House Caswell, House Leygood, House Hunt, and House Sarsfield's sigils dance in the breeze alongside the Tarly huntsman, the red salmon of House Mooten, the Tyrell golden rose, the Lannister golden lion, and the Baratheon crowned stag. _The Mootens supported Robb through my uncle. And now Lord Baelish_.

"Word is," Ulwyck adds, turning to her again, "Tarly has every available man hunting down outlaws. We ought to—"

"Be careful?" Sansa suggests with a knowing look, summing up her anxiety in a mere two words.

"Aye, my lady. Lord Tarly is a cold man."

"Cold, ser?"

"Harsh," Ulwyck answers, frown leading the next admission, "but fair. And very loyal to Mace Tyrell and the interests of the Reach."

"He would send me back," says Sansa, unsurprised. Back to Cersei and Lord Tywin and Ser Ilyn with a new sword instead of Father's Ice...

"He would," Ulwyck concedes, grim. "Without a second's thought."

 _Unlike the Dornish_ , Sansa thinks, not for the first time. Her trust in them grows with each day at sea, fragile as a flower.

"Fortunately," Sansa volunteers with tentative pleasantry, "there's only sparrows like us on board."

Ellaria and Ser Daemon were very smug during that explanation. Sansa misses her dresses made of silks and velvets, but the promise of true freedom and kind company with it banishes that desire far and away. The roughspun gown she's taken to wearing resembles what the poorest servants of the Faith wear, while the leather the men favor makes them as anonymous as hedge knights and freeriders and highwaymen. With no Martell sun or Stark direwolf to announce their movements, Sansa and the rest will fade into welcome anonymity.

"Aye, my lady," Ser Ulwyck says again, amused. "May the gods preserve us."

With the tide, the _Vixen_ reaches the Quiet Isle by evenfall and makes berth at the mouth of the Trident. Ser Daemon, Dickon Manwoody, and Joss Hood take the first rowboat in, Daemon to the oars and Joss to hold the torch in the darkness. Sansa follows the light anxiously, but it reaches the shore and remains, to her relief. Joss and Dickon stand vigil as the rest of the party is ferried from the ship, with Sansa, Ellaria, and Gwen designated for the final trip. Captain Corenna Sand hugs Sansa goodbye as her sailors smile and bow before returning to their duties. The _Vixen_ 's off to Gulltown, stuffed to the brim with goods to trade for the spices of the richest merchant in the port.

"They say his daughter Saffron is a great beauty," Corenna quips, smirking. "Shall I ask for sweets, not spices?"

" _Saffron_?" Sansa repeats, sharing an incredulous look with Gwen, who giggles.

"Not as great a beauty as Lady Sansa, I'm sure," Ellaria demurs, all innocence. The moonlight does little to hide Sansa's flushed cheeks.

"Best be off," Corenna suggests after a swift glance at Ellaria, eyes twinkling. "This is the Quiet Isle, not Planky Town."

They watch the ship pull up its anchor as Ser Daemon rows them into the darkness, not tired enough yet to skip giving Sansa an encouraging smile, as is his wont. Sansa returns it, and gives the _Vaith's Vixen_ a final look, more grateful than she can possibly bear.

 _If I ever see Corenna Sand again, she'll pay no customs at White Harbor. I'll beg Lord Manderly, if I must_.

Cheered by the thought, Sansa extends a hand to ghost her fingertips through the water, pale white meeting a swirling black. Under the moonlight, Sansa looks less than human in her reflection and more of an apparition, choppy waves distorting her face beneath its hood.

A wolf in the woods, lying in wait.

* * *

When Sansa's party reaches the shore, Ser Deziel offers to carry Sansa over the mudflats and the tide pools, gallant as Ser Garlan Tyrell.

"It's only water," she replies with a polite refusal, ignoring her sodden boots. She's a sparrow now, just like everyone else.

 _Though_ , she thinks, guiltily, longingly, _a bath would be most welcome_.

A brother escorts the group to supper, apologizing for the Elder Brother's absence.

"Elder Brother?" Sansa asks Maester Cedrik, curiously. The group tucks into warm bread and crab and mussel stew, a refreshing if slight change of palate after more than a fortnight at sea, dining on fish and fruit, as the _Vixen_ needed to preserve its main food supply.

"Their leader," the maester explains, absently touching where his chain should be. "Nearly a septon, only he leads brothers, not septas."

When they're finished, Sansa accompanies Ellaria and Ser Ulwyck to meet the Elder Brother, who greets her by name. She flinches.

"There's a warrant for your arrest, my lady," says the Elder Brother. "A highborn maid of five-and-ten, with a fair face and auburn hair."

"I'm four-and-ten," Sansa lies, struck with new terror. _We've come so far now—I can't—Ellaria promised—the queen will hurt—_

"Peace, my lady. The Quiet Isle has no need of the king's gold."

"Everyone likes gold," Ellaria points out. Her uncle rolls his eyes.

"Pardons," Ser Ulwyck grumbles, visibly relieved when the Elder Brother waves the affront away. "My niece has her father's slant."

"The tidings outside of the Isle are known only to me," says the Elder Brother. "My brothers are here to repent, not to claim a reward."

He seems honest, Sansa allows after her heart has stopped racing and Ellaria's disapproval has faded. "I-I thank you."

"I will thank you after you and your men have left our Isle," the Elder Brother admits, not unkindly. "The war has not come to us, and I mean to keep it that way." He studies her with shrewd eyes, making Sansa's stomach coil into painful knots. _He knows_ , Sansa panics, stricken. _He knows it was my hairnet that poisoned Joffrey. Should I confess? I played a part, even if I didn't—_

"My lady," the Elder Brother begins, shrewdness melting into something softer, "I bear bad tidings."

Sansa's had nothing but bad tidings since she left Winterfell. She nods, tightlipped. _Brave, be brave. What else can be taken from me?_

"Your sister was kidnapped by the Hound, not long ago."

The admission gets to her as slowly as Ellaria's words after Joffrey died, gentle as feathers. The pieces land out of order, needing closer attention to understand. The Hound. _The little bird thinks she has wings, does she?_ She can't remember if that was before or after their kiss. The world was bathed in green and black the last time she saw him. And...Arya? Sansa screamed at her to marry Hodor, and slammed the door...Arya went off to her dancing master, and the Lannisters captured Father. Sansa struggles to straighten out the correct order of things. Arya, the Hound. Arya kidnapped by the Hound? How? Arya was dead, killed in the streets of King's Landing.

And the Hound? Gone.

The touch of Ellaria's hands on Sansa's shoulders breaks the trance.

"Arya?" Sansa asks, neutrally, a picture of poise. "My sister disappeared." _Dead_ , she nearly says, but chokes on the words.

"After your father died, yes. She ended up at the inn at the crossroads with Sandor Clegane, and they may have gone to Saltpans."

Ulwyck's sudden intake of breath makes the cold wash over her again. _Bad tidings. I always get bad tidings._ She clears her throat.

"What of Saltpans?"

"Raided by the Hound," the Elder Brother elaborates, sadly. "Every man, woman, and child was put to the sword. I'm sorry, my lady."

"The Hound did this?" She tries to reconcile the sacking of Saltpans to Sandor's tears when he left her during the Blackwater with his white Kingsguard cloak, after she sang for him and he kissed her. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't sound right. He wouldn't...even if...

"Another beast wears that helm, I'm afraid. Sandor Clegane himself is dead."

Dead. The word's a slap in the face, painful as beatings from the Kingsguard.

"If...you'll excuse me," Sansa gets out, thickly, drowning in the awful ensuing silence, "I need...a moment."

* * *

She finds her way outside, half-blind and stumbling. Weak at the knees, Sansa drops to them in the mud, dirtying her dress. _I don't care. Everyone is gone. Father and Mother. Robb. Arya, Bran, Rickon, Lady. Jeyne Poole. The Hound._ Her family and friends, all dead. Even Winterfell is dead, burned like the Hound's face. Sansa wipes her nose on her sleeve, smearing mud on her cheek. _I don't care_ , she thinks. Better to be ugly and unrecognizable than herself, Sansa, the stupid girl who lost everything that's ever mattered to her.

"Lady Sansa," a voice calls in the dark, sweet as dreamwine and summer sunlight.

She doesn't answer, but the voice finds her anyway, attached to Ellaria Sand's downturned lips.

"Sansa," she says again, cradling Sansa's face with her hands, thumbs brushing under her eyes. "Come inside, where it's warmer."

Sansa latches on to something mundane, feeling weaker than she's ever been. _How can I be strong after this? After **everything**?_ "It's not cold," she mutters, voice wobbly with grief. Ellaria lowers her hands and takes Sansa's own, both of them forgoing all courtesies.

"Not to you, my lady of ice and snow. Come with me, _please_."

Sansa tries. She tries harder, putting all her weight on one side. "I—I can't," she mumbles, struggling to wrestle her foot free of the mud. Unlike the news of Arya, this understanding hits her as sure as a battering ram. Stuck. She's stuck. It brings a fresh round of tears to her eyes. "I can't," she repeats, distress teetering nearer and nearer to hysteria. She swallows, gulping air down in short bursts. "I can't, Ellaria...my foot, it's—"

"Quicksand," Ellaria finishes, determinedly calm in the face of Sansa's horror. She grasps Sansa by the elbows, grip like iron. "Look at me, Sansa."

Feeling wretched, Sansa looks. Ellaria's features swim and blur in the moonlight as if spread and swirled by a paintbrush.

"I need you to stop moving."

In this light, Ellaria looks like a perfect lady. Sansa, by contrast, feels like a quarrelsome child."I need to get _out_."

"The only way out is to stay still," Ellaria counters, sternly. "Imagine that, my lady. It seems foolish, doesn't it?"

Sansa obeys, stilling just short of falling limp into Ellaria's arms like she wants to. Ellaria nods, keeping Sansa in place by the elbows.

"Now," says Ellaria, "move your boot a little. Just a little, and slowly, like you're pulling a thread."

Sansa does what she's told and makes a path in the mud with her boot, gentle as Lady's steps. She hiccups, still digging.

"Now," Ellaria repeats, "pull your foot out."

It gets free, though not without Sansa stumbling, ungainly as a fool. Ellaria catches her, expression so soft Sansa wants to weep again.

"Let's go inside, my lady," Ellaria murmurs, tucking a strand of Sansa's hair behind her ear. "Your ghosts aren't going anywhere."

* * *

Finally able to get the bath she wanted, Sansa lingers in the tub carted up by Ben Gargalen and Joss Hood, swirling her fingers through the water as she works to regain her composure. She and Ellaria were sent to the women's cottages, though Ellaria made arrangements for them to share, to Sansa's relief. Ellaria herself reclines in one of the chairs near the fire, seemingly content to sit in silence unless Sansa breaks it first.

She does.

"Thank you for saving me," Sansa volunteers, carefully. Tonight, and the wedding, she means to tack on, but her tongue is tied.

"Certainly, my lady," Ellaria says, formality betrayed by a glimmer of her smile, beguiling Sansa again. "I do enjoy playing knight."

Sansa draws her knees closer, thinking of her other knight. He refused the title and spat on it, too, but he was a true one, quite unlike his brother. _The Hound always laughed at my courtesies_ , Sansa remembers, recollections hazy with grief. _It was simpler, then. I was a little bird, a little dove, and Robb was still fighting._ "The Hound was mine," Sansa admits, guardedly. "My knight."

Ellaria follows along, features as inscrutable as ever.

"He cursed when people called him _ser_ because of his brother," she confides. "But he tried to protect me from Joffrey."

"Joffrey beat you," Ellaria ventures. A question.

"No. 'A king should never strike his lady', he said. The Kingsguard hit me for him. The Hound didn't."

Saying it aloud feels almost as good as her bath. Besides the Hound, only Tyrion and Shae protested—publicly and privately—about Sansa's treatment. Ellaria wasn't there, nor the Dornish. They never saw it for themselves, so Sansa controls the telling, however thinly. She can tell them the truth of the matter without cloying words and false assurances. She can tell them without worrying over Joffrey's wrath; Joffrey is dead and horribly so, therefore unable to retaliate, but Ellaria never would have been in his way, as Sansa fretted for Margaery's sake weeks prior. Not even the queen will hear any of this; Ellaria's loyalty to Sansa feels stronger than a thread, strong as her grip—iron, unyielding.

 _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey._ With Ellaria, Sansa can speak. _Really_ speak, and not chatter like the Hound said she did.

When she can meet Ellaria's eyes, Sansa just looks at her. Ellaria looks torn between anger and shock, so it puts her lips into a thin line, and furrows her eyebrows together. Her gaze seems to flash like the sky before thunder booms, sitting on the precipice of an explosion.

"Oberyn should have strangled that boy with his bare hands," Ellaria says, finally.

Then Sansa would still be in King's Landing. She and Tyrion would not be accused of murder. They would be married, after the funeral. She hasn't thought much of her husband-to-be, it disgraces her to realize. Remorse crawls into her throat, makes her lower her chin in shame. Tyrion bears the brunt of kingslaying, not Sansa. In truth, Lady Olenna is guilty. Lord Varys is guilty. Prince Oberyn and Ellaria are guilty by association. Sansa and Ser Dontos have their own supporting roles; the pawn and the fool calling a hairnet of poisoned amethysts _magic_.

But, if Oberyn strangled Joffrey, Sansa would not be free.

"I'm glad he didn't."

"As am I," Ellaria admits, sorry as the brothers of the Isle. "Otherwise, I deprive my children of their father, and Dorne of their prince."

They sit quietly again.

"Oberyn plans to kill that brother," Ellaria confesses, grimacing when Sansa looks to her again with wide eyes. Alarm ought to make Sansa fearful of Oberyn's life, but she just feels...listless. Sluggish. One of her new friends wants to kill the Mountain That Rides, the man who tore up the Riverlands and murdered Elia Martell and lanced Ser Hugh through the throat and beheaded his own stallion, the latter two at Father's tourney. Leaden fear courses through Sansa soon enough, but she holds her tongue, watching Ellaria. "For Elia and her children."

Ellaria sighs. "I worry..."

"Worry?" Sansa prompts, no stranger to paralyzing dread. It has her in its tendrils now, horrid as a pit of snakes. _Lions._

"I worry we will not see him in Harroway," Ellaria says, troubled. "I worry the Mountain will kill my prince before he gets his vengeance."

Her frown gains a droll edge.

"My love will put poison on his spear. If he does fall—"

"The Mountain falls too," Sansa surmises, alarmed by the thought. Ellaria nods.

It's Sansa's turn to comfort, but reassuring Ellaria of Oberyn's survival makes Sansa feel woefully out of her depth. Ser Gregor is as terrifying as the giants of Old Nan's stories, and Prince Oberyn...Prince Oberyn has the cocky attitude of a man with not nearly enough fear. Sansa hugs her knees again but meets Ellaria's eyes, trying to put as much conviction as she can into her voice. Ellaria needs it, just as the ladies in Maegor's Holdfast needed Sansa to join her voice to theirs and sing of the Mother's mercy for the dying men outside.

"My father always said the only time a man can be brave is when he's afraid. Is...is he afraid of Ser Gregor?"

"Terrified, my lady, though he will never admit it."

"Then Prince Oberyn is the bravest man in King's Landing."

Ellaria's worry doesn't completely leave them, but Sansa thinks she's almost smiling, too. A playful look appears, after a moment.

"My prince would love to hear your flattery, my lady. I'll be sure to tell him when he arrives."

They smile at each other, a return to form. Sansa and her fretting, Ellaria and her charm, but something has changed, however small.

Sansa sinks lower into her bath, savoring the little pleasures that sharing secrets and a bit of rosewater can bring.

* * *

In the morning, Ellaria and Sansa join the men on the mudflats of the Isle. The Elder Brother waits for them, stern as Sansa's father.

"You should not go on, my lady. The roads are no longer safe."

"There's nowhere I'll be safe," Sansa says, not knowing the truth until it's out of her mouth. "Nowhere except Winterfell."

"Winterfell has fallen, Lady Sansa. Roose Bolton is Warden of the North. And his bastard son..."

"The Bastard of the Dreadfort," Dontos Hollard mumbles, nervously. A queer hush falls over the flats.

"This...Ramsay. Ramsay Snow. There's talk of him marrying your sister, Arya."

A spark of anger flares in Sansa's belly. "Arya's dead. You told me." Truthfully, Arya died when Father died. Sansa never saw her sister again after screaming at her on that last day together and the rumors of Arya's survival are only that. _Rumors_. She doesn't believe the Hound could sack Saltpans any more than Arya could marry a Bolton bastard. Arya would run away like Sansa never could. Ellaria's words from the night before jump back to her. _The only way out is to stay still._ Someday, Sansa will stand still and properly mourn Arya. Mourn everyone—Mother, Father, Robb...too many to name and number. She will mourn them and be the Stark in Winterfell, the very last one.

"She is," the Elder Brother concedes. "This girl is an imposter."

"It's...my claim. They want my claim." A claim. Sansa hadn't considered its importance until the threat of marrying Tyrion arose. _They want it and it's mine. Winterfell is **mine**_. Sansa purses her lips, well practiced in concealing her feelings, her thoughts, her heart.

"They do."

"They aren't going to get it," Ser Daemon pipes up, loyally. The Elder Brother shoots a look at him, mouth twisting into a frown.

"This is mad, my lady. The war is over. Your home is in ruins. Find a new home, Lady Sansa. Find a man who will take care of you."

_They say the Ullers are half-mad, did you know? Half-mad and the others much worse_.

"We'll take care of her," Gwen of the Greenblood insists, stubborn as Sansa's lost sister. "We're bringing her home."

The Elder Brother sighs, dismay melting away. He raises his hands in defeat. "Forgive me, my lady. I don't share the stories of the world with my brothers. I only wish a maid like yourself a lifetime of happiness, and good health. This war is folly, and a great waste."

"Waste?" Deziel Dalt repeats, betraying his youth. The Elder Brother sets him straight.

"Men fight. They will _always_ fight, I am sorry to say. But the women...maids, mothers, babes at the breast and women with no children...they suffer. They should not, least of all now. Summer has ended, with autumn approaching its own. And soon..."

"Winter is coming," Sansa finishes, smiling wistfully. The Elder Brother is right. The war's brought nothing but horror to every side of the fray, from Renly Baratheon to the Ironborn, from Robb to Joffrey, from Stannis Baratheon to Tyrion Lannister. Renly and Stannis lost, Robb lost, Tyrion's named a traitor, and Joffrey's dead. Sansa's entire family is dead save Jon. Survivors just pick over the scraps.

A part of her wants to stay on the Isle. The war hasn't come and no one knows her here. It would be easier to remain, and stay as anonymous as her sparrow dress and traveling cloak make her. She could help at the farm with the sheep, or brew the ale and sweet cider. She could pitch in at the mill, and dirty her hands making bread as Gage used to. She could fish Rhaegar's rubies out of the tide pools and help bury the dead soldiers that wash up on the beach. She could become a septa, and pray as faithfully as these penitent brothers, matching her voice to theirs in song. She would never have children that look like Robb and Arya, with sad Stark faces or Tully blue eyes, but she could pray to them, and feel at peace, finally. The wolf in wait snarls at this, fierce as Grey Wind and brave as Robb.

 _I can be brave. Brave as him, brave as all of them_.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Sansa tells the Elder Brother, tells Ellaria and Ser Daemon and Ser Ulwyck, Gwen and Dickon and Ben and the rest. The Quiet Isle's hush abates as the birds awaken, singing a new, unfamiliar song. "And I need to go home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updates will get a little slower now that the semester's starting up again, but I hope to post a new chapter at least once a week. Thanks for sticking around to my (increasingly self indulgent) story!

Sansa misses her horse.

Only recently has Sansa come to like riding. On the kingsroad, she pretended to for Joffrey's favor. In the Red Keep, she often found herself wishing she could ride right out of the bailey and jump the fence to race all the way home to Bran and Rickon. With Margaery, riding became a private thrill and a treat, because whenever they went hawking they were allowed away from the castle for as long as Margaery wanted. She begged Sansa to sing 'Six Maids in a Pool' and smiled so prettily when Sansa complied, notes flitting through the trees and around their horses as they dipped their ankles the river. Sometimes, Sansa pretended she was Wenda the White Fawn, cutting through the woods on the palfrey and fearing no one, not even the illustrious Sword of Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, who slew the Smiling Knight.

Now, however...Sansa's walking. A lot. She misses her horse. A _lot_.

"Shall I carry you, my lady?" Ser Deziel jests, as Sansa looks at the nearest hill during a rest with dismay. The group hurried past Saltpans on foot, warier than ever of their proximity to danger, but stopped to rest their aching feet once gaining a safe distance.

"No, ser. I thank you for the offer."

It doesn't seem fair of her. Ellaria and Gwen walk just as much as Sansa without complaint. No one else has any horses. Joss Hood tried to pay the Elder Brother for the courser that was making a ruckus in the stables on the morning they left, but the man refused.

 _Driftwood is our beast of burden now_.

"Harroway's just few leagues from us," Ser Ulwyck grunts, stowing his waterskin away after a few hearty gulps.

"How do you know?" Qoren Sand asks, stealing Sansa's question.

"Harmen and I chased deserters all the way here from the Stepstones after the Band of Nine fell. We served Lord Edgar Yronwood."

The War of the Ninepenny Kings, Sansa remembers. The last stand of House Blackfyre. Barristan the Bold slew Maelys the Monstrous.

 _Bran loved that story_. It made him want to join the Kingsguard, with Sansa as his beloved queen. "You stayed at the Quiet Isle," Sansa suggests, intrigued now. Ulwyck Uller seemed unusually familiar with the place when he argued with Daemon Sand about their next move prior to meeting Prince Oberyn at Harroway. He glances to her with a knowing smile. _Servants of the Faith_ , Ulwyck said before. _A refuge._ Sansa suspects it also serves to shelter the _wounded_ as well as the sick, along with two children a long way from home—a young Dornish squire and his brother, even younger, serving a lord and soldier...

"Very good, my lady. I did," says Ser Ulwyck. "When I was a page."

"Now you're just an old knight, uncle," Ellaria quips. Ulwyck booms a laugh.

"Aye. And your father's no runty squire anymore."

"Dorne wasn't officially involved in the war," Maester Cedrik explains. "Nonetheless, Lord Yronwood was a man of fierce repute, and asked our Princess for permission to join the expedition to the Stepstones. We have no love of the Stormlands, but Lord Yronwood was a friend to Ormund Baratheon. Ormund's son Steffon had a betrothed before Cassana Estermont who had been kidnapped by pirates."

"Was she ever found?"

"No," the maester answers as the group prepares to set out again. "She was lost."

"Harmen and I wanted to rescue her," Ulwyck tells Sansa. "The dreams of squires and pages. We wanted to impress Lord Edgar, too."

"You wanted it to be like the songs," Sansa muses, understanding. _Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow._ Littlefinger did nothing for Sansa in Joffrey's court, save give her that one bit of advice before Father died.

"I rescued a lady, uncle," Ellaria teases, arm-in-arm with Gwen, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Are you jealous, old man?"

Sansa laughs at Ulwyck's blustering retort, and steps a little lighter. Life may not be a song, but there are heroes, stalwart and true. None of them look like Joffrey, or Loras, or even Robb. They look like the Hound, like Ser Daemon, like Ellaria Sand and Ulwyck Uller.

"Come, sweetling," Dontos invites, offering his hand to help her up. "This old Florian cannot be without his Jonquil."

They even look like Ser Dontos the Fool on the night of Joffrey's wedding, his old surcoat sporting red and pink horizontal stripes beneath a black chief bearing three gold crowns, the arms of House Hollard. _I wanted to be a knight. For this, at least._

She takes some comfort in that.

* * *

In the woods near Harroway, they find a hanged man.

"Gods above," Maester Cedrik gasps. Sansa stares in horror at the noose around the boy's neck— _he's only a boy_ , she thinks, aghast—and his bulging eyes and bruised throat, feeling no closer to fainting or crying than she did when Ser Hugh died right before her eyes at Father's tourney, forcing Septa Mordane to drag a sobbing Jeyne Poole away to compose herself. Sansa hopes this boy didn't suffer like Joffrey did, choking and coughing and sucking down air with no idea of how futile it would be. _There will be no songs of you_ , Sansa thinks with a final pitying look, _or rites of the Seven_. The chance of a Silent Sister finding this poor boy and giving him the proper rites is next to nothing.

Dickon Manwoody fares worse—he's retching in a ditch, holding a hand to a tree to remain steady. Even Ser Ulwyck looks appalled.

"The outlaws," Ser Daemon notes, grim. The stories of them must have reached as far as Dorne.

"They only hang Freys and Lannisters."

"He could be either one."

"Let's go," Ser Deziel urges, glancing around them with a disquieted expression. "That could just as well be us if we stay."

They trudge through mud and over fallen trees, their clothes snagging on branches. Sansa picks brambles off Ellaria's sleeve and untangles Gwen's hair from a hedge, determinedly calm. She doubts her brother ever let his men see his fear, even at the Twins.

It's mid afternoon when the party gets to Harroway, chased by a chilly breeze and a wan sun.

"Town's flooded," Ser Ulwyck tells the group after he's scouted the area, "but there's an inn ahead. Three gold dragons a person."

"Ridiculous," complains Joss Hood.

"Then we make camp outside, Uller," a voice calls, jauntier than Sansa has ever heard it and a sharp distinction to the despair of the surrounding woods. Its effect is immediate—the fear in Sansa's men withers away. "And make merry like Summer Islanders."

Prince Oberyn strides toward them, a skip in his step and the smile of a madman on his lips. Garbed as plainly as they are, the prince brings a brightness all his own to their makeshift camp. He opens his arms as if to embrace them all, grinning wider.

"Kiss your prince," he crows. "Elia is avenged."

* * *

Once the prince has extricated himself from Ellaria and Ser Daemon, batted away Ser Ulwyck's grumbles, shaken hands with Joss, Dickon, and Ben, clapped Ser Deziel on the shoulder, waggled his eyebrows at a giggling Gwen, he turns to Sansa, and bows low.

"Lady Sansa," Prince Oberyn greets, pressing a kiss to her proffered hand. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Prince Oberyn," Sansa returns, politely. His grandness amuses her, chasing off the gloom that pursued them since seeing the boy in the noose. "I appreciate your...support."

That makes _him_ look rather serious. "The best swords of Dorne are yours, my lady."

"And spears," a woman behind him rumbles. The prince's beam returns as he straightens up to make the introductions.

"My natural daughter, Obara Sand. She has her father's bloodlust. Isn't that something?"

Tristifer Toland snickers.

Obara rolls her eyes. Oberyn drapes an arm around the shoulders of the second woman of his party, more beautiful than Obara.

"My natural daughter, Nymeria Sand. She's more sophisticated than I, and twice as deadly, of that I promise you."

"Nym, if you please," Nymeria tells Sansa with a wry smile. Oberyn moves across the clearing to present Sansa, showy as a mummer.

"Girls," the prince continues, "Lady Sansa of House Stark."

Obara levels her with a considering look, just as Nym dips into a curtsy as elegant as Lady Margaery's.

Sansa's struck with a sudden need to impress them, along with Prince Oberyn. They weren't with her on the _Vaith's Vixen_ as Ellaria was; they didn't see Maidenpool and the danger of Randyll Tarly's banners. They didn't see the Quiet Isle, or Sansa's weakness of tears for the Hound and Arya. They haven't seen her with Sers Daemon and Ulwyck, plotting out a safe course in the Riverlands.

"You honor me, my prince, my ladies." Obara raises her chin, about to protest, but her sister stills her with a look. "I can't promise you safety, here, or any kind of payment after I get to Winterfell. But...you bringing me home means more than you could ever know."

She feels a prickle of tears in her eyes, but blinks them away, startled by the feeling of wonderment in her chest. It's a dizzying sensation, a powerful sensation. In King's Landing, when knights weren't purposely ignoring her, they were laughing at her. The very idea of knights and ladies belonging to Sansa without obligation is laughable. Tyrion treated her courteously enough, but half apologetically; Shae proved to be a fierce friend as far as her station allowed. These men and women—cuts of some brilliant cloth known only to Dorne's people—want to further her interests. She isn't sure if her thoughts or earlier words prompt a reaction, but Oberyn only has to smile for a flurry of activity to begin.

Oberyn and Nym unsheath daggers and place them on the ground; Obara puts her spear alongside them. Sansa hears the swing of a morningstar meeting the ground with a thud. Double curved bows join their quivers on the earth, battle axes rest on the grass, as longswords gleam and shine in the approaching dusk through the trees and outskirts of Lord Harroway's Town. Sansa looks around, seeing the entire party going to their knees. Even Ellaria and Dontos find places with the group, one graceful and the other ungainly.

"We are yours, Lady Sansa," Prince Oberyn promises, sincerity winning out over earlier mischief. He holds her gaze, viselike but earnest. "We will shield your back and keep your counsel and give our lives for yours, if need be. We swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

"Your lives," Sansa repeats with a shaky smile, feeling strangely young and old at the same time. _Did Robb_...? "I—"

"We volunteered, m'lady," Gwen pipes up, fervent as Ser Deziel after Ellaria's questions. "Dorne has plenty of others to defend her."

"We've sat on our heels for too long," Joss Hood adds. "Helping you's just right, that's all."

"I avenged Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon, my lady," Oberyn reminds her, gently. "The Lannisters created new injustices in the meantime."

 _And...undo everything the Lannisters have done_ , Sansa said to Ellaria while they were still at sea. On the _Vaith's Vixen_ , the idea seemed a great distance away, with Sansa still dealing with the certainty of her escape from them, first and foremost. Getting revenge was a point on the horizon, set leagues and leagues back with the same possibility of happening as Father returning to life.

She steels herself. She can be strong as her lady mother, her lord father, her king brother. She nods, resolute. All these men and women will find a good lady in her at Winterfell. They'll be no fear of her, like the servants feared the queen regent; they'll be no uncertainty of her temper, like Joff. Sansa will be stalwart and true and they will _love_ her, like Father's people loved Mother.

 _Did Robb..._? She wondered just moments ago. Did Robb ever struggle like this? Sansa's accepted the loyalty of these Dornishmen and women with as much heart as she can. They seem to trust her, like her. They want to bring her to the ruins once known as Winterfell, risking the anger of the Iron Throne in the process. Did Robb ever worry himself silly over the promises made to his bannermen, his personal guard, his queen? Robb wasn't much older than her when he called the banners and left Winterfell to fight Tywin Lannister's host. Robb was as much of a boy king as Joffrey, but a truer king, a just king. The North loved him, followed him.

An old thought curls snakelike around her ears. _If I am ever a queen, I will make them love me_.

“And I vow," she begins, "that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, my ladies, sers...Dornishmen.”

They stand as tall as sea waves, steadfast as Aemon the Dragonknight. _All for me_ , Sansa thinks, less concerned this time.

The week after Father died, Joffrey commanded her to attend court and had Ser Meryn Trant strike her when she refused. Now, Joffrey is dead, Ser Meryn is all the way back in that wretched city, and Sansa is finally free. _You are no true knight, Ser Meryn_ , she once told him. It doesn't matter now. Today, Sansa has a prince, four knights, a dozen sworn Sands, a pair of Sand Snakes, and Dontos Hollard.

"Join me, Sansa," Ellaria says, inordinately pleased. Sansa returns the smile, and lets herself be led. "My prince has a story for us."

* * *

While King's Landing grieves, the Prince of Dorne is celebrating.

Oberyn is more gleeful than anyone Sansa has ever seen, even Joffrey. His eyes sparkle, his lips twist a dashing smile, and his body gives off a satisfaction so strong it makes Sansa's toes curl to see it. He pantomimes the story, better suited to act on a stage as a mummer than recount the tale in the woods, illuminated by cookfires. Sansa leans closer to listen, Ellaria's shoulder pressed to hers.

"Cersei accused the Imp, right in front of everyone! She wanted his head straightaway, but Lord Tywin...no, no, no. Lord Tywin..."

His audience gives helpful hisses of distaste at the name.

"Lord Tywin _insisted_ on a trial. Tell me, has this man ever been _fair_?"

"No!" Gwen of the Greenblood declares.

"Never," Maester Cedrik answers, a contrast to any earlier diplomacy.

"I was the one of the judges, with Mace Tyrell as the third—"

"Fat flower," the Lady Nym hums, innocently. "I should rip him up by the root." Ellaria laughs.

"—and Lord Tywin presiding," Oberyn continues, gesticulating. "They brought in dozens of witnesses. A hundred, perhaps." A trace of sadness finds root in Sansa, as she follows along. Tyrion probably hungered for friends as Sansa did. With her gone, he has none. It isn't enough to suggest spiriting Tyrion away from the capital, as she was, but Oberyn gets to that soon enough, astonishing Sansa.

"...demanded a trial by combat. Naturally, I had to step in."

"Naturally," Ellaria mutters, pursing her lips. Sansa covers Ellaria's hand with her own, knowing they are thinking of the same conversation.

"It was a glorious fight," Oberyn adds after providing many grisly details. "The Mountain went down like the lummox he is."

"And his head?" Ben Gargalen asks, eagerly.

"Sent to my brother with your father," Oberyn answers with a jaunty look. "He's dressed in my finery, masquerading as your prince!"

All to cover Oberyn's movements in the opposite direction with his own column. The supposed prince went home to Dorne, bloodlust appeased and Elia at rest. Sansa has to marvel at them, just a little. They've planned everything so well, thinking of every angle to delay or avoid discovery. Ellaria and Oberyn claim credit for Sansa's escape, but she wonders if Prince Doran has any weight in the matter.

"And...and Lord Tyrion?" Sansa questions, dreading the answer. Joff may be dead, but Cersei is just as terrible, especially to Tyrion.

"Safe, Lady Sansa," Oberyn answers, taking on a mischievous tone. "He joins the Red Viper in Dorne, ever grateful for saving him."

The men cheer, the Sand Snakes smirk, Ellaria applauds, and Sansa has to smile. Full of surprises, this prince. She can get used it.

* * *

They set out for Riverrun at dawn. The prince's presence brings new excitement to the party, reinvigorating the men to march.

Sansa does her best to share it. She ambles and meanders on little rest, thinking uneasily of last night's nightmares. Nearly all of them ended with her alone in the snow, facing the ruins of home with the corpses of her sworn swords around her. Collateral damage in this fool's errand to Winterfell, she assumes, unable to banish her worries overnight. If they are not careful, every man in her column could meet their ends in the trees, like the boy near Harroway, like Mother in the Trident. _I can't lose them. I can't lose anyone else._

The prince offers an arm as they stroll through desolate fields at the back of the march, just as quiet as Sansa.

"Last night," says Oberyn, pensive. "Last night..."

"Last night?"

He slows to a stop, turning to look at her. There's something frighteningly familiar in Oberyn's eyes, even if they are near strangers without Ellaria or Tyrion as a go-between. How many times has Sansa looked at herself in the mirror and seen that staring back? She isn't sure what else Oberyn feels beyond a mask of grief, unobtrusively hidden behind a dramatic story to entertain his friends over a cookfire. He smiles, a mere shadow of the buoyant grin of yesterday, and takes her hands, grip as gentle as his paramour's whenever she comforts Sansa.

"They call me bloodthirsty," says Oberyn, "carnal. Savage. As if I am not capable of other feeling." The man Sansa once feared in her heart of hearts smiles, mirthless, an entirely new person to her. Sansa hardly remembers why she was afraid of someone who looks so _sad_. "I grieved, my lady. Days beyond counting, weeks without number, long moons and longer seasons."

Sansa's mourned her father and sister for years, her mother and brothers for a little over a month. Imagining going through decades without them brings fresh tears to her eyes. Oberyn keeps his own counsel at the sight of them, giving only an unhappy little twist of his mouth. Vaguely, Sansa wonders if it was Ellaria's advice that pulled him through the haze all those years ago. Where had _she_ learned it?

"Killing Gregor Clegane doesn't erase Elia's absence, Lady Sansa," the prince admits, paying no mind to the gust of wind above him and Sansa, promising rain any moment. If Ellaria's eyes on the Quiet Isle were the tipping point before a storm, her lover's now are the soft remnants after a downpour, enigmatic as mist. "I will never see my sister again. I will never see Rhaenys again, or Aegon, the sweetest girl and happiest babe I have ever known. But...I prevented another loss. _Losses_. Even in Dorne we heard of the Mountain's rampage across the Riverlands. He destroyed the lands of your uncle's bannermen. He terrorized any smallfolk who happened to be in the way. He is...he _was_ , a monster. He never would have stopped.

"The death of the Mountain was justice, my lady," Oberyn says. "Justice and vengeance. You must get your own, for _your_ family."

Sansa nods, even if half of her shies away from the prospect, recoiling from the idea. She's no warrior, not like Obara. She has no sense of intrigue, like Nymeria. And her enemies...Oberyn had only the Mountain That Rides to dispose of, and Joffrey by extension. Sansa's list seems to grow the longer she considers it. Tywin Lannister. Cersei Lannister. Walder Frey. Roose Bolton. Ramsay Snow. She can't bring herself to consider lifting a sword to strike any of them (even smuggling a knife in her sleeve before Dontos made himself known to her in the godswood was a source of dread), as much as she's dreamed of. She isn't a _fighter_. Sansa doesn't want to be one.

"I have no training," says Sansa, deflecting. _I need Father and Ice. I need Robb and Grey Wind. I need Mother's wits._

"Your mind is your sword, my lady," Oberyn counters, undeterred. He releases her hands and offers an arm. "Doran is just like you."

"Your brother."

"My brother. He no longer swings an axe or lifts a sword. The gout is too painful. But, my brother lifts a finger, and his will is done."

He glances at her as they start walking again, thoughtful. "Ladies are taught to run a household, are they not?"

"They are," Sansa agrees. When Mother wasn't going through Winterfell's expenses, she was planning a budget. Sansa watched her poring over the records of harvest stores, more prudent than any southron lady. One year's harvest had a sixth of its crops stored for winter; the next, a fourth. Whenever Father visited castles and keeps of the North to maintain friendships and oversee judicial affairs, Lady Catelyn spoke with all of the guards, arming Winterfell in case of an attack. Lady Catelyn also found time to scour the castle for repairs, ensuring every nook and cranny was bricked off to keep heat within the walls. Sansa expected to do the same at her husband's castle.

"Think of us as a household, my lady. Only, our task is your safety."

"I can't command you," Sansa protests, dour mood all but gone. "You're a prince."

His eyes dance. "I swore to you with everyone else, remember? Princes swear oaths, just like knights."

"You're not like any prince I've met before."

Prince Oberyn does a half bow with one of his dashing smiles, arm still linked with Sansa's.

"I aim to shock and awe, my lady."

* * *

Sansa isn't sure what she finds more of on the journey, nursing sore feet and sleeping under the stars: hanged men or wolves.

The men don't wear anything of value and didn't struggle, says Maester Cedrik. The only wounds they have are around their necks. They all look the same by the time Sansa gets to them, though without really seeing them, as she had with Father's, the guards, and her septa's heads on spikes. They horrify her, disgust her, but she must move on. Some stare with bulging eyes, some stare with empty sockets, remnants of a crow's feast. The men near Harroway are more bone than skin, while the rest, nearing Riverrun, seem fresh.

"A trail of breadcrumbs," the Lady Nym observes, arm linked with Gwen's.

"A bad omen," Dickon Manwoody mumbles, more nervous than ever.

It's another week before they run into trouble, albeit a deceptive kind. A singer waits in the road, stringing a harp and whistling.

"A song for you, ser?" He asks of Deziel Dalt. Tristifer Toland makes a dismissive noise, joined by Qoren Sand.

The singer peers over them, looking at every man and woman in turn. He plucks four notes, sharp and quick. "Or for the pretty maids?"

Nymeria's smile unwinds like a serpent. "There aren't any maids here, singer."

"What of wolves?"

Sansa freezes. Oberyn puts on a smile as he turns ever so slightly to block her from view, though it lacks even a hint of warmth.

"No wolves, singer," the prince replies, waiting until Nym has appeared at Sansa's elbow before continuing. "Only sparrows."

"You don't look like no sparrows," another voice growls, quite unlike the Hound.

A man peers down at them from a hill, unimpressed even as Sansa's column put hands on sword hilts, notches arrows, and forms up.

"Sparrows look scared," the singer muses. "And sparrows are poor. None of them have castle forged steel, or such fine boots..."

 _An overlooked detail_. Sansa winces. The disguises aren't as foolproof as they all initially believed.

The man on the hill stands, sour yellow cloak clashing horribly with the grass. He frightens Sansa. "I don't like the look of 'em, Tom."

"Neither do I, Lem."

"Leave us in peace," Obara warns. Sansa doesn't look at her; she's staring at the number of faces popping up in the wood. _We're outnumbered _, Sansa realizes, struck dumb with fear. They're surrounded. The singer was a distraction, and the man in the cloak...__

"Shan't, my dear," Tom retorts, alarmingly cheerful. "We don't know who you belong to."

"Wait," another man interrupts, breaking the formation around Sansa's column of Dornishmen in a hurry. He doesn't balk at Obara's scowl, Nym's warning hiss, the prince's frown or even Ellaria's displeasure. He only has eyes for Sansa, peculiar looking in a sheepskin jerkin and growing beard, though he stays outside of her protectors, almost respectfully.

"My lady?"

The accent stirs a memory, frosted and familiar. "I...do know you," Sansa says, uncertainly. He's...someone. A northman. "Where—?"

He laughs, brokenly, coloring the memory in greater detail, and even more when he speaks again. "Winterfell, Sansa. Remember?"

He rode with Robb and Jon. Hullen's son. "Harwin?" Sansa whispers, rewarded with a gigantic smile she hasn't seen in two years. The column parts for her as she runs to hug him, for once ignoring her courtesies, her station and his. " _Harwin_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowing down or speeding up plots every so often. It shouldn't be too hard to follow. Enjoy!

If she thought Harwin's smile was sweet, his hug is even sweeter.

"You're...taller," Harwin offers, drawing back an inch before releasing her entirely. "A beauty."

 _Always so bold_ , Mother would mutter. Arya loved him just for that. Sansa can hardly keep from _beaming_ at him. This is one of Father's men. Good men, these men—they were always _good_ , even if Harwin drank a little too much on feast days. 

Around them, the hostility fizzles out like a dying fire. Harwin remembers the other men almost as quickly as himself and his manners.

"Stand down, all of you," Harwin commands, tone brooking no argument. Sansa's men relax a little after Oberyn and Sansa exchange a look, then a little more when Harwin's party creeps back into the trees, save Tom the singer. He plucks softer notes now, features curious.

"They say you fled, milady," Tom remarks, entirely too familiar with Sansa already. "After the wedding."

"They say you killed the king, Sansa," Harwin adds, an inscrutable look to him. Sansa discerns admiration and disbelief, though she can't decide which one it is nor which one she wants it to be. "They say you killed him with a spell, changed into a wolf, grew leather wings like a bat, and then soared out the tower window."

 _The gods aren't that kind_ , Sansa deigns not to say. Sansa wanted to soar, sometimes. Only Sansa wouldn't wake up, like Bran did before he died. She just never could find the courage to jump, even after every round of bad tidings and with it, dwindling hopes.

"Imaginative," the Lady Nym quips, sheathing her daggers. "Have you written a song of it?"

"Almost," Tom retorts, pleasantly. "Needs some fine tuning, is all."

Prince Oberyn interrupts, casting a wary glance into the trees. "Your fine tuning would sound best around a fire, singer," he suggests, less conciliatory than Sansa thinks they ought to be. Harwin nods in agreement, prompting Tom to tuck the harp back under his arm. "Shall we?"

Harwin and Tom replace Oberyn's scouts in the front of the line. The column follows their lead, albeit at a slower pace.

"I don't trust them," Obara hisses as soon as she's able, a scowl twisting on her mouth. Sansa has half a mind to agree—these men are almost certainly outlaws, if not the infamous Brotherhood that wagged so many tongues in the Red Keep. Not even the Mountain could get rid of them, though he tried. _If I mention his death, will that endear them and Lord Beric Dondarrion to Oberyn_? She wonders, watching the Sand Snakes bicker. _Or_ , she muses, _will breathe new life into a Marcher lord's age old enmity with Dorne_?

 _Harwin wouldn't let them_ , Sansa reasons, trying to quell her nerves. _Harwin wouldn't be with them if they were bad men._

A cold breath whispers down her spine. _That didn't stop the smallfolk in King's Landing_ , Sansa reflects, uncertainly. All they wanted was bread. Sansa would've given away a whole granary to them if that would've avoided the riot altogether. If not for the Hound's bravery, the man who lost an arm when he touched Sansa would've pulled her down into the mob.

When Sansa's column reaches Harwin's camp and stops for the day on an uneasy note, Harwin falls into step with her.

"Who are they?" He asks, avoiding the Lady Nym's gaze when he looks to her men. Nym lingers just out of earshot, protectively.

"My people," Sansa answers, feigning her sworn sword's own nonchalance. "Who are _they_?"

She thinks Harwin will parrot her, but he only gets a funny look on his face and sighs. "The king's men. Well, once."

"On my father's orders," says Sansa, remembering. That was before the war _was_ a war. Father sent Beric Dondarrion—the handsome lord Jeyne Poole fell in love with at first sight—and Harwin and Alyn and dozens of men to arrest Ser Gregor, who laid waste to the Riverlands. The Mummer's Ford hadn't stopped the Mountain, not even for a minute. _Only Oberyn **did**_.

Harwin nods. "Now..." He trails off, hesitating, cowed as Podrick Payne and unnerved as Tyrion before Joffrey's wedding when he told her what happened to Robb and her lady mother. The bubble of tension grows in size the longer they stare at each other, filling Sansa with anxiety. _What's the matter_? Sansa wants to ask him, despite dreading the answer with all of her being. _Is Alyn dead, dead as Hullen and Desmond and Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole?_ "Now we fight for—"

"Harwin," the singer calls, breaking the spell with a bid for them to join him. "Sit. Milady, if it please you...?"

Primly, Sansa finds a seat opposite Tom. Ellaria perches next to Sansa on one side, Prince Oberyn on the other. Obara and Nymeria crowd the circle at Harwin's elbow, poking at the budding cookfire with sticks. Sansa's men and Harwin's mingle around other fires, following their examples. Dontos weeps when a one eyed man in a pothelm gives him a wineskin, thanks him profusely, and starts drinking.

"Cozy," Ellaria japes once Sansa's circle is comfortable, making the prince snicker.

"Why are you here, my lady?" Harwin asks, so familiarly direct it puts Sansa at ease. _Always so bold, indeed_. "These lands are dangerous, especially for you."

"For any daughter of Winterfell," says Tom. Harwin's lips thin into a line.

Much like with Ellaria in the captain's cabin of the _Vaith's Vixen_ , an instinct to lie has Sansa facing a new crossroads. Thus far, the Dornishmen have proven themselves true to her. Harwin doesn't need to, though Sansa hesitates nonetheless. The war has changed everyone, herself included. Gone is Sansa's gentle heart and Harwin's good humor save that one sweet smile when she recognized him—Sansa thinks the two of them would fit in better at a funeral, surrounded by equally solemn faces. _Still_ , she has to admit to herself, wishing Harwin has a face that looks less honest, _Harwin and Tom and Lem had every opportunity to hurt us, hurt me, and they did not._ Harwin called off the ambush on the country road, in spite of superior numbers and the element of surprise.

"I need to get to Riverrun," Sansa answers, deciding to dole out the truth in small pieces and lie only if necessary. _I trust too easily_.

"To what end?"

Sansa meets a distant Ser Ulwyck's eyes for a moment, considering. The Bloody Gate and Sansa's supposed kingslaying put Aunt Lysa beyond reach. _Who else_? She wonders, morose. Ser— _Lord_ —Edmure Tully. None of Sansa's protectors have mentioned her uncle, only her mother's. "I heard of Ser Brynden's survival. He's...he's family," she explains, as neutrally as she can. "He's all I have left."

Him, Jon, Edmure, and Lysa. Three of whom she hasn't met, and one bastard brother who she kept at a distance. Sansa stifles a sigh.

"The Blackfish is in the middle of a siege, my lady," Harwin tells her, gently. "He's surrounded by Freys."

"And Lannisters," Tom interjects, "with more on the way."

_More Lannisters _? Sansa conceals her dismay. The goal was to get to the Red Fork and cross it, then contact Ser Brynden as discreetly as possible. The risks get only higher over time, Sansa has to admit. For her, for the prince, for Ellaria, for each and every one of her sworn swords. All for her and her fool's errand to Winterfell. Sansa fiddles with her gown, searching for words.__

"Tell us of this siege," says Prince Oberyn, when Sansa's silence runs just a little too long.

"Tell _us_ who you are," Tom replies, smiling. Obara's scowl returns, dependable as daybreak.

"May I present Prince Oberyn of Dorne?" Sansa offers, vindictively enjoying the way Tom's smile wavers and shrinks.

"My prince" and "m'prince" rise over the cookfires as the sight of Sansa prompted "my lady" and "m'lady" in mumbles and murmurs.

Ellaria fixes her gaze on the singer, smile just as insolent. "My prince slew the Mountain That Rides. Show some respect."

It was just the right thing to say. The one eyed man in the pothelm drops the pheasant leg he was gnawing on; Harwin's eyes go wide; Tom the singer looks at a loss for the first time. One man shouts gratitude to the Lord of Light for the boon. Another swears how _fortunate_ they are now that the lion's most savage dog is dead. Even Lem the Sour—as Sansa names him in her mind—has a reluctant air of approval, albeit hidden behind a scowl. He reminds her of the Hound, however vaguely. _He's just as angry_.

"You?" He sneers, looking Oberyn up and down. The prince bares his teeth.

"I'd show you his head, but I sent it to Dorne."

"Hmph," says Lem. The outlaws whisper amongst themselves, shooting Oberyn looks of surprise and admiration.

"The red god favors you, ser," a grizzled outlaw declares.

"Never short of admirers, our prince," Daemon Sand jests in an undertone, making Deziel Dalt snigger into his horn of ale.

"Still, Sansa," Harwin continues, as if he wasn't interrupted, "you shouldn't be here. Riverrun is too dangerous."

 _Does he take me for a fool?_ "I need Ser Brynden, Harwin. He's going to help me get back to Winterfell."

Harwin goes pale. "Winterfell? Sansa...Winterfell is in _ruins_. Theon Greyjoy put it to the torch and slaughtered everyone."

Sansa fumbles for a counterargument, dodging the deterrent with as much grace as she can muster. "I-I'll rebuild it."

"With what money? With what people? Sansa..." Harwin trails off again, infinitely older in the firelight. "You can't."

"Are you going to stop me?"

That kind of lip earned her beatings from the Kingsguard. Only Harwin and Ellaria and Nym and Obara and Arya can be so bold...

The tentative peace between either side fractures like ice under a great weight. Obara's spear and Nym's knives wait to be used; Daemon twirls an arrow in his hand, bow draped blatantly across his knees. Qoren Sand's shortsword glints, even from this distance. Harwin's men brandish their own weapons, distrustful. No one moves, no one speaks, but the implication is as plain as day: a wrong answer will be fatal. Sansa's column waits for her word, her direction. Even Gwen, who filched a dagger from the prince, sits unflinchingly.

"Sansa," Harwin warns, uneasy.

"I want to go home, Harwin," she says, willing her voice not to break. _Have I trusted wrongly, **again**?_ "I don't belong anywhere else." Winterfell was his home too, Sansa wants to scream, wants to make a ruckus like Arya until she's heard properly. He lived his entire life there, like Sansa, like Hodor, like Jory, like Gage, like Mikken—why _didn't_ he want to go back? Winterfell isn't end of a song like Sansa once believed, it's the beginning. The true beginning. "I'm a Stark of Winterfell, and that is my place."

Harwin stares at her so long, so blankly, Sansa wonders if he's going to strike her without any indication in his gaze beforehand, like Ser Mandon Moore. She wonders if his soul has fled into an owl overhead, or to a shadowcat in its den, like Old Nan's frightening stories of the wargs and the skinchangers Beyond the Wall. "No," Harwin answers, finally, rebuilding the truce with a dismissive wave of his hand. Sansa's men relax, just as the outlaws do, as if nothing went amiss only moments earlier. Sansa's just relieved nothing _did_ come of it—she and her Dornishmen aren't sitting in a hall, but they did eat and drink with Harwin's men. Guest right applied, thinly, even under only a tree canopy and the stars above it, even if wolfing down pieces of salted mutton and stale bread and downing horns of ale.

_We are not Freys._

"No, we won't stop you." He pauses, lips curling into a bracing smile. His eyes seem to shine. "We're going to help you."

* * *

When Sansa wakes the next day, they are waiting for her. Gwen combs Sansa's hair into a single braid, fingers as deft as Mother's.

"Lady Stark," Tom of Sevenstreams greets as she steps into the clearing, the last to arrive. Sansa only nods curtly in reply, and finds her seat beside Ellaria. The prince sits between his paramour and a kneeling Harwin, while the Sand Snakes see fit to stand. Sers Ulwyck Uller and Daemon Sand complete the party, the former with his map and the latter with his customary smile. Ulwyck unrolls the map over a tree stump, letting Harwin smooth down the opposite side.

"Tell us of the siege," Prince Oberyn says again, and they do.

"Emmon Frey and some Prester fellow have set up camp here, just south of the Red Fork," Harwin begins, illustrating their position with his finger, then the approximate one of Sansa's camp. "There's a boom from shore to shore, downstream of the Riverrun. Nobody gets in or out without Ryman Frey's leave." Ryman and his host, Sansa learns, is situated north of the Tumblestone. It was fortuitous Harwin found them, she decides. If the column had listened to Sansa, they would've marched straight into a Frey camp. Squirming, Sansa remains silent.

"The new heir after Oxcross," Ulwyck informs her. Joffrey punished her in front of the court for that victory. Sansa has not forgotten it.

"All the river lords," Harwin carries on, "are south of the Red Fork with Emmon and some Lannister men."

"Daven Lannister faces Riverrun," Tom chimes in, plucking a melody that sounds like 'Six Sorrows'. "Your Blackfish is quite encircled. Not to mention..." He changes the song, stopping the first in favor of 'The Dornishman's Wife'. "The Kingslayer approaches, leading men up the kingsroad. He's due to to arrive in a matter of days."

Ser Jaime was Robb's prisoner. She also hasn't forgotten Joffrey's askance, angry looks about it, as if it was all Sansa's fault.

"How many is that now?" Obara mutters.

"Four thousand, give or take, not including the river lords."

"These river lords," Ellaria inquires of Harwin, distracting Sansa handily from the sums. "They were coerced?"

"Aye, my lady. Bent the knee to save their sons."

A flick of her fingers. "I'm no lady."

Sansa tries to arrange all the facts in a sensible order. Riverrun, under siege by a battle seasoned soldier and one of the few of her blood left alive. The Lannisters and Freys, occupying the lands of her uncle as they pleased. Desertion from the hosts was rising, however, by Tom's sly admittance. That and the Lannisters were struggling to keep their levies fed, since the Freys are not inclined to share any food and fodder from the Twins. Sansa sympathizes, reluctantly—her column was beginning to struggle finding food, too. For every speared fish in ponds or skillfully caught hare in hedges, there was a growing need for more game. Sansa's men were just as vulnerable to hunger as the Lannisters. Not even the rotting crabapples tempted Sansa and her people; the hanged men sometimes had them stuffed between their teeth.

"Bracken has Blackwood penned up at Raventree," Harwin explains, as Oberyn listens with rapt attention. "Starving him out."

"Seagard, Raventree, and Riverrun are the last of the Young Wolf's strongholds," Tom concludes, tapping each castle on the map.

 _Three sieges, all at once_ , Sansa muses, weary. _Father was lucky. He never sat sieges. He **broke** them_. At the Battle of the Bells during the Rebellion, Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark stormed the walls of the Stony Sept and fought the Targaryen forces. After King's Landing fell to the Lannisters, he lifted the siege at Storm's End. Later still, when her father was the ruling Lord of Winterfell and Sansa herself was very young, the Siege of Pyke ended in a decisive victory for the king. _Father would know what to do_ , she thinks, regretful.

"Jason Mallister isn't here?"

That makes Tom smile again, cheeky as Lord Varys. "His son is _our_ custody, not Ryman Frey's."

"He won't surrender," Sansa ventures, speaking for the first time. Her own time as a hostage was illuminating. "Not if his son is safe."

"Never, not after we smuggle him in," Tom answers, cheerfully. "Black Walder is quite angry about it. More's the pity."

"And Lord Edmure?"

Harwin and Tom exchange a look, the latter's amusement withering away. "We're quick, my dear, but...Lord Tully is closely watched."

"He stands on a gibbet from dawn to dusk, my lady," Harwin admits, to Sansa's horror. "Ryman Frey threatens to hang him every day."

"Threatens?" The Lady Nym repeats, skeptical. She looks like her father that way, Sansa sees. "The Freys haven't gone through with it?"

"All Freys are craven, though some are less so. One is Ryman, the other is Black Walder."

Sansa lets the conversation go on without her, wanting to collect her thoughts again. Following in Father's footsteps seems like the best idea—besieging and then breaking the besiegers, rather than trying to get across the boom and into Riverrun to see Ser Brynden. A foolish idea, no matter how Sansa turns it around in her mind, examining the risks and rewards at every angle. Trying to infiltrate Riverrun would leave her about as helpless she was during the Blackwater in Maegor's Holdfast, though there was no Ser Ilyn Payne waiting in her uncle's halls. And getting inside...grappling lines? Hooks, as if she would dare try that herself? A siege tower? If Tully archers wouldn't cut her down prematurely, the Freys certainly would.

But to _break_ this siege...how? Her column came to just under forty even after Oberyn's link-up in Harroway. Her father always had plenty of men to fight with him. By the singer's estimation, Sansa's column is outnumbered almost a hundred to one.

 _If only Bran were here_ , she reflects, wistful. _He could've climbed his way inside, once_.

What of Robb's footsteps? Lancel Lannister cursed her brother's 'vile sorcery' at the Battle of Oxcross. Tyrion clarified the story, later, after Sansa's beating wounds from the Kingsguard were dressed. Ser Stafford Lannister had not posted sentries, thinking himself safe in his own lands. With the bedlam of Grey Wind spooking the new host's horses and the blindness to their enemy's movements, Robb's army fell on the green boys and fisherfolk with all the might of a snowstorm. That puts Sansa in the same quandary as before—she needs _more_ men. Footmen and cavalrymen and true knights and a direwolf. _Lady_. Sansa pushes the bittersweet memories away, unwilling to be distracted too far from the problem of Riverrun. She needs Ser Brynden, and a solution to get to him has yet to—

"My lady, my lady," Dontos Hollard pants, barreling into the clearing like a rampaging elephant. "M-my prince. There's...there's been an attack."

"Attack?" Oberyn demands, jumping to his feet without hesitation. Nym and Obara and Ulwyck follow him, as Harwin and Daemon move to stand with Sansa and Ellaria and Tom of Sevenstreams. Sansa's sweet Florian gasps for breath, pointing frantically over his shoulder.

"Lannisters! Please, please, you must hurry!"

* * *

Only after Ser Daemon receives word from Prince Oberyn is Sansa allowed to see what happened. The sight of it all curls her stomach into knots, but she strides through the camp unflinchingly, wanting a look for herself. She saw Ser Hugh die, she saw Ser Preston and Ser Aron being attacked in the riot. She saw Joffrey, choking and turning an unsightly purple. She saw the hanged men in the trees, ravaged by crows. _This_ , Sansa tells herself firmly, _is nothing_.

"Deserters," Lem grunts as Sansa, Ellaria, Tom, Harwin, and Daemon rejoin the group. He prods a dead soldier with a foot. "We think."

They were lucky. Between Harwin's men and Sansa's, there was no casualties whatsoever despite what looks like a surprise engagement, just like Oxcross. _The gods won't be so kind to us again_ , she thinks, running her eyes over the bodies of the dead with trepidation. A dozen men in Lannister colors lay in the grass, limbs twisted grotesquely. One man is sprawled against a tree, viscera darkening the color of his surcoat and the nearby brush. Another man is face down with a spear sticking out of his neck. Harwin's men make short work of the group's weapons and undamaged armor. They pick over the pieces like scavengers, knocking dents out of plates and tying swordbelts around their waists. One outlaw stuffs a soldier's purse into his tunic, gnawing on a single coin to examine its worth.

"We take any steel we can find, Sansa," Harwin murmurs, seeing Sansa's expression. "Even from them."

 _Father would never approve_ , Sansa wants to tell him, but she holds her tongue.

It gets her thinking of him again. She wants to know what Father would say to this campaign of hers—the summerlike dream of going home after so long away. In her dreams Winterfell is whole and perfect, untouched by the war and Theon's treachery. At night, Sansa returns to the castle and dances with her brother in the yard. Snowflakes dot their hair and cheeks, and Robb laughs as Sansa curtsies and calls him _my lord_. He always pretended to be any knight she wanted; the Rainbow Knight, Aemon the Dragonknight, Florian the Fool, Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Her nightmares flip the image on its head, though—Sansa's very much alone, buried under a snowdrift near the South Gate.

 _Serwyn_ , she reflects, fixating on the name instead of the worries that trouble her in sleep. He slew the dragon Urrax by approaching the beast behind his shield so the dragon only saw its own reflection, then spearing Urrax through the eye. _The dragon only saw himself_ , she thinks again, a crease furrowing on her brow. A trick, one the dragon never saw coming. One the lion may never see coming.

"Harwin," says Sansa, softly, suddenly, and regaining his attention, "we're going to need that armor."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter distracted me from my coursework, but I just had to post it. Anyway, enjoy!

"Hideous," the prince complains, as Daemon kneels before him to fasten the greaves. "Red does not suit my coloring."

"You wear your Rhoynish sun well enough," Ellaria notes.

A grumble. "Gold does not complement my looks."

"The spear of Lord Mors?" Sansa asks with a straight face, conjuring the sigil of House Martell in her mind. A gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field, flying proudly over Sunspear. _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_. Oberyn's as Dornish as they come, making his donning of a dead Lannister soldier's armor all the stranger. Beaten, the prince frowns like a boy denied a present, and complains no further.

Daemon stands, giving the pieces a few tugs each to check the fit. He too frowns.

"Our best chance is to attack at night," says Daemon, confirming all concerns. "This won't go unnoticed."

"Nor my looks without a greathelm. Dashing, devastatingly handsome, and—"

"Dornish," Ellaria interjects, sidling a long-suffering look at Sansa. Sansa ducks her head over her sewing, smiling a little.

Surprising no one, the prince was one of the first to pledge himself to the fledgling idea of breaking the Lannister-Frey siege of Riverrun. His daughters followed, as anticipated, with barely a breath between their promise and Daemon Sand's. Not to be outdone, Ser Ulwyck Uller pledged to the cause, pursued by Harwin, Harwin's men, and the handful of knights, men-at-arms, and squires of Sansa's column. Joss Hood plots to fight Ryman Frey, Tristifer Toland vows to slay Forley Prester. Deziel Dalt floats the challenge of fighting Walder Rivers. Harwin only gives Sansa a grim smile, preferring to fight any Lannister that stumbles into his path.

"I'll keep _you_ safe, my lady," Dontos Hollard insists, actually sounding knightly for once. "I promised."

Sansa closes another hole of a stolen surcoat and ties the thread off, trying not to dwell on these many promises. She can't afford to be scared, not when there's so much planning to do. Scouring her handiwork for any missed tears, Sansa dips the stained clothing into the slow moving water of the Red Fork, hoping any blood of the previous owner will either wash out or look like mud from the road.

The road to winning Riverrun will not be a simple one, Sansa is beginning to understand.

"I'll need protection near the Frey command pavilion," Maester Cedrik informs the motley group that makes up Sansa's advisors.

On Ulwyck's advice, Sansa designates Joss Hood, an archer, and three spearmen to the task. Joss will protest, Sansa knows, but she keeps the observation to herself. In the worst case scenario, Joss's men can kill the Frey ravens and any brought along by Ser Jaime. A maester of her own to contain the ravens prevents any news of the siege from getting to the Red Keep (and to the closer Twins).

 _Like Robb_ , Sansa muses. Her brother got rid of scouts whenever necessary to conceal the movements of his army.

Scouts and outriders present another problem to Sansa's cause. Only yesterday, Obara slew two Frey patrolmen, taking an arrow to the arm and a terrible mood to heart despite stopping the discovery of Sansa's party altogether. Under Maester Cedrik's care, the wound heals nicely, though the prince's first daughter will be forced to take a smaller role in the upcoming assault. Undaunted, she vowed to be Sansa's second personal guard, confident that even injured she'd provide better protection than Dontos (no one dared refuse her).

The Lady Nym takes to scouting the area with Harwin, borrowing the horses the patrolmen no longer have a need for.

"Nymeria is a talented rider," Oberyn explains, sharpening a shortsword. "Not as gifted as my Elia, but she has a skill."

Elia Sand, Oberyn's first daughter by Ellaria. Ellaria herself smiles, pausing in her own stitching.

"She loves to joust, my lady," says Ellaria, proudly. "She's grown fearsome in the lists."

"I should like to see that someday," Sansa admits, returning the smile. _Arya would've loved them all_.

With the problem of information and concealment assured, Sansa focuses on the next one: food. After dropping anchor at the Quiet Isle and getting enough provisions from the Elder Brother to last them a sennight, the column then bought a scant supply from a Harroway innkeep, unwilling to spend too much too early. The march from Harroway to the Red Fork depleted the column's stores entirely, forcing them to live off the land. _What's left of it_ , Sansa allows. Burned fields, absent game, no nearby stores of grain for winter...

They'll need to steal the food.

"It is not shameful in war, milady," says Tom of Sevenstreams. "Lord Jason Mallister suggested as much to your brother."

Prince Oberyn agrees.

"Baggage trains are easy prey, you see," the prince explains, pointing to the Red Mountains of Dorne on the map. "Take the Young Dragon, for example. The boy king was clever. He went through the Boneway on a goat track. The watchers missed him. If he was stupid as the Illborn—" Joffrey, Sansa guesses "—the Fowlers would've isolated his baggage trains when the line moved around a bend."

Sansa doubts the theft of Daeron's stores would've quenched his thirst for Dorne for long, but deigns not to say so, just as she won't voice her disagreement of stealing Frey food and fodder coming from the Twins. Her column needs to eat, and this way, they will.

Trying to keep a smile on Sansa's lips, Ellaria suggests a swim.

"It's autumn," Sansa protests, lingering at the bank of the Red Fork. Their camp's barely an hour from Red Deer Island, and less than three from Inn of the Kneeling Man. Tom promises its innkeep is a friend, though Sansa's frown only deepens in consideration of the offer. Even moving a league from their position feels _wrong_. Things change quickly if Sansa doesn't pay attention, unwilling to let anything slip by her again. New to strategy, Sansa wants to follow her instincts, rather than seeking idle comforts. _A bed, though_ , she thinks, longingly. She and Arya shared one on the way to King's Landing, though that was the crossroads inn, not this one...

Ellaria's already wading in. "Tullys swim, don't they?" She queries over her shoulder, tone very sly.

"Yes," Sansa concedes, inching one foot in. Ellaria only beckons her with a finger, giving one of her playfully imperious smiles.

Sansa can't help but think of her sister again. While Bran was the climber and Rickon was the runner, Arya was the explorer. She made friends with everyone and anyone and embarrassed Sansa with her unkemptness on the road and horrific manners. _Look at me now, Arya_ , Sansa thinks, ducking her head under the water to wet her dirty hair and cheeks, both scarcely washed in the marches from one side of the Riverlands to the other. The thought turns as sour as Lem in no time at all. The real Arya, dead. The imposter Arya due to marry Ramsay Snow, the bastard Dontos Hollard sounds afraid of. _Everything's gone awry_ , Sansa muses. She was preparing to upset a siege against disproportionate odds and commanding more knowledgeable men, while "Arya" returned to the North to marry.

When the two of them are skimming the bottom with their toes and treading water in peace, Ellaria speaks again.

"Ser Daven has finished a third siege tower, according to our singer."

One for every side of Riverrun, Sansa supposes. "We should burn it down."

It's a possibility. The crux of their attack lay in the angle of misdirection. When some men were to suit up Lannister armor and pass themselves off as enemy soldiers, others would be wearing whatever they pleased, nameless as sparrows and invisible to the besiegers. These anonymous men—mostly Harwin's, who know the area well—are flitting about the host at this very moment, distributing pitch and tar in nondescript places. The cookfires were already in place; would anyone care to notice something amiss in the dying embers?

Sansa hopes not. All the embers will set the entire camp ablaze.

"This is a bloody business, my lady," Ser Ulwyck advised before she and Ellaria wandered off. "Best prepare yourself for it."

 _Prepare_? Sansa wonders. _Prepare to see and hear and **smell** men dying?_ She already has.

"You are faraway, my lady," says Ellaria, drawing Sansa back into the present. "Shall I sing for you?"

The look on her face is familiar, and much warmer than the water. Sansa's grown fond of Ellaria's teasing. This woman's smiles can chase away a blizzard in the middle of winter, Sansa is beginning to think. Though, under the sparkling gleam of the sun off the current of the Red Fork, Ellaria seems better suited to life at court amongst Margaery's beautiful ladies rather than being here, braving the roads with Sansa and all the others. _She wanted to see me smile_ , Sansa recalls. _Best indulge her_.

"Prince Oberyn told me...you _can't_ sing," Sansa proclaims, mischief making her words less wary, her heart less heavy.

Ellaria's outraged expression precipitates an almighty splash in Sansa's direction, making Sansa splutter and cough in shock.

"My lady of ice and snow," Ellaria Sand declares, flinging more water. Sansa yelps, dodging the cascade by half. "You wound me."

"Winterfell!" Sansa cries out like any brave Stark jumping into a fray, abandoning a long honed dignity in favor of splashing Ellaria herself. They giggle and jeer like children in the leisurely flow of the water, both trying to no avail to be the definitive winner until Ellaria yields with as much of a curtsy as the Red Fork allows, surrendering to Sansa with a kiss to her proffered hand, gallant as Prince Oberyn. _Mother always said Tullys drew strength from the Trident_ , Sansa thinks, pleased, intertwining her fingers with Ellaria's.

"You look like a merling," she tells Ellaria as they drift closer together in the current. Ellaria smiles, lovelier than any song.

"You look like a queen."

The words soar to her like an arrow to a bullseye. _Me_? Sansa thinks first, bewilderment warring with an old thrill. Sansa was nearly a queen once. She dreamed of goldenhaired children and smallfolk begging for her blessings and knights lining up for her favors, like Queen Alysanne or Queen Naerys. _Not me_ , she thinks, second, as Ellaria tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind Sansa's ear. _That's Margaery. That **was** Margaery. That's Cersei Lannister._ She ghosts a hand along Ellaria's cheek, drifting ever closer, the third thought fluttering around Sansa's ears like a secret. _She looks like a merling or Maris the Most Fair or Mariah of Dorne_ , kind on the inside as she is lovely on the outside. _She wanted my smile_ , Sansa reckons, flushed by the fourth thought, _would she welcome a kiss, instead?_

The thunder of approaching feet jerks them apart.

"My lady," Ser Daemon greets, almost out of breath, "Ellaria. The prince asks for you both. The Mallister boy's here. Ser Patrek."

Wrapping herself in one of the cloaks abandoned on the shore, Sansa leaves her disappointment in the river and follows him back, a silent Ellaria at her heels. Gwen's waiting for Sansa outside a hastily raised tent, one of the few the column has, courtesy of Harwin.

"Until later, my lady," Ellaria tells her, stealing the kiss Sansa wanted, quick as a snap and sweeter than honey. She winks and wanders off in search of Oberyn, leaving Sansa staring stupidly after her, unaware of her own smile until Gwen comments on it, tying Sansa's hair into a new braid.

"You're red as autumn, my lady," the maid notes, amused, humming the next beats of 'Seasons of My Love'. "With sunset in your hair."

Sansa curls the braid over one shoulder, remembering Ser Ulwyck's warning with familiar resignation. _Best prepare yourself for it_. The afternoon with Ellaria was that in sum, a little bubble of happiness and warmth—of summer—that she can look back on and appreciate in the nearing cold. _And now I must be the Winter Maid_ , she decides, _and strong as my lady mother_.

* * *

Sansa needn't have worried about her appearance, after so long. Patrek Mallister looks much worse. Haggard and ashen, Sansa's struck by the resemblance to the likes of Lancel Lannister. _The war's aged you, too_ , Sansa thinks, studying Patrek closely.

"Lady Catelyn?" He breathes, looking almost afraid. He shakes his head, vehemently. "No. No. So you must be..."

"Sansa," she corrects, cautiously, inviting him to sit beside her with a wave. Obara has a steely gaze on them just out of earshot, while Ulwyck and Daemon pretend not listen from a greater distance. Sansa returns her attention to Patrek. "Thank you for seeing me, ser."

He laughs, broken as Harwin. "Thank _you_. It's—I've...I've heard so much about you."

 _From Mother, I imagine._ She hesitates, following a different train of thought. "You were with them. At the wedding."

Patrek shivers. "Yes, my lady. I h-helped bring Lady Roslin to the bedchamber. I was japing with the fiddlers, when..."

When Sansa's brother was shot with quarrels, when he and his wolf were beheaded, when Lady Catelyn's throat was cut to the bone...

They're quiet for several minutes. _Lady Roslin_ , she thinks. Was Roslin aware of her father's treachery? Was anyone?

"It was Lord Frey and Tywin Lannister," Patrek swears after Sansa presses further. "A lot of bloody Freys. Lothar. Lame Lothar." Patrek drums a nervous beat on his knee, but stops as if burned. "He came to us in the dungeons. The prisoners. He bragged about it."

"Prisoners?"

"Survivors. Me. Kirth Vance. Marq Piper...Jon Umber—the Greatjon. His son, Smalljon. Others who yielded, maybe thirty."

Patrek's freedom from the Twins depended on Lord Jason's surrender of Seagard. Tom of Sevenstreams smiled cheekily at that, when Sansa asked. _Black Walder was...distracted_ , the singer explained, leaving the details of the distraction to Sansa's imagination. Patrek was spirited from his escort to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. His lord father received word of his survival and closed his town off.

"He still flies your brother's direwolf over the walls," assures Patrek. "Tom said so. And _I_ say so."

Sansa pauses, searching for the right appeal. Ellaria seemed so confident on the _Vaith's Vixen_ that the river lords and the North would rise for her...Patrek's own admission breathes new life into the idea, enough to ask him the question that's been on her lips since she learned of Edmure Tully's daily ordeal at the gallows. "My direwolf," Sansa ventures, going on when Patrek blinks, genuinely stunned. "That's why I've come. Riverrun has my uncle and my mother's uncle, a whole garrison, fresh supplies..." She clasps her hands together, trying not to seem as desperate as she is. "I'm going back to Winterfell, ser. What I ask of you is...will you help me get there?"

"Y-yes. Yes," Patrek Mallister replies when he can, almost wonderingly. Sansa's heart leaps, swift as a swan. "Yes, my lady. That's..." He gives her a tiny smile, tremulous as Sansa was under Joffrey's thumb. "That's what your mother would've wanted. And your brother."

Counting yet another piece to the strategic puzzle of liberating Riverrun, Sansa smiles at him, absurdly grateful.

"You look like him, you know," Patrek offers as Sansa's guards approach. "Edmure."

"I pray he'll soon see that for himself, ser," Sansa replies, curtsying low. Patrek bows, fear all but washed away.

Sansa knows the feeling.

* * *

Ser Addam Marbrand and his outriders reach Riverrun before Ser Jaime, some two hundred strong.

"You see how he rides alongside his men?" Oberyn questions, as Sansa swivels the Myrish eye to locate the group on horseback. "There. At the back...then he moves to the middle, then ahead of them all," the prince says, watching from the hill they've hidden on, efficient as a crow's nest to seeing the land below them. Oberyn draws his hood higher, glancing at Sansa. "They trust him. They even like him."

Sansa moves the eye until she sees the bronze colored Marbrand cloak, and the flash of Ser Addam's coppery hair.

"He was kind to me."

"And to me," the prince answers, elaborating at Sansa's inquiring look. "He was at Casterly Rock when Elia and I visited."

She can't imagine Prince Oberyn in the very heart of House Lannister, not after seeing just how much he hates them. _As much as I do_ , Sansa judges, lost in thought. She vowed to never trust a Lannister again after what happened to her father, but Oberyn lost his sister, his niece and nephew, his uncle Prince Lewyn to the Trident, thousands upon thousands of Dornishmen to Robert's army...

 _Justice and vengeance for your family_ , the prince urged of her near Harroway. Would it be as terrifying as Joffrey's coughing?

"He'd send me back to the queen," she decides, finally. Ser Addam is kind but dutiful and loyal to her enemies. "Like Lord Tarly."

"Just so."

She returns the spyglass and stands up to brush off dirt from her dress. Oberyn escorts her back to camp, just as Tom appears.

"Lord Piper speaks for all the rivermen, my dear," the singer confides, taking her aside. "They'll be ready for your signal, whatever it is."

"What songs do you know?" Sansa asks. The last piece of the puzzle, now that Robb's bannermen are willing to fight.

Tom doffs his hat. "Name it, and it's yours."

"The one about the rain," she suggests, cold as Father, as winter, as the Wall, as the wolfswood, as the Shivering Sea. "And the lions."

"The one about the rain," Tom agrees, smiling. "Aye, my lady. I know it."

* * *

"We'll wait for him," the prince counsels, after the trumpets announcing Ser Jaime begin to blow. "Let him get comfortable."

They watch, for a day and a night. Harwin and Tom flit about the Lannister and Frey camps, making certain every trap was in place. Many of the Frey tents have horses tied off nearby. _Good_ , Sansa thinks, reminded of Grey Wind at Oxcross. Her column is spread thinly, as is Harwin's brotherhood, but the river lords arrange their men at certain points to compensate; a handful near a smith, feigning wants for weapons; a trio stationed near Edmure Tully, led by Tom of Sevenstreams and a disguised Patrek Mallister; a perimeter around the nobility, like Emmon Frey, Genna Lannister, and Gawen Westerling ( _ripe for ransoming_ , Maester Cedrik advises). Prince Oberyn sets his eyes on Ilyn Payne (to Sansa's terror, the executioner came with the Kingslayer), only for the Lady Nym to insist she join him. Ser Deziel has _his_ eyes on Walder Rivers, and Ser Ulwyck volunteers to fight Daven Lannister, calling them evenly matched.

"Ser Jaime," Harwin declares, stone-faced. With his beard, Harwin looks formidable, like the mountain clansmen of the North. "He's mine."

"And us?" Tristifer Toland questions of Sansa, indicating himself and Qoren Sand. Garbed in red and gold, they look sinister.

She tells them to sing.

"Hurry, my lady," Dontos Hollard mumbles when the sun has vanished, drawing her away from the dispersing column. Obara, Daemon, Ellaria, and Gwen trail after them, armed and silent. The prince said goodbye to every one of them in turn, a hint of fear in his frame.

"He'll be bravest that way," Sansa murmurs to Ellaria, "remember?"

Ellaria's hand finds hers and squeezes. "I remember."

The hour of the bat brings the faint noise of 'The Rains of Castamere'. Soon, it seems all the camps are singing along, weaving low droning tones with high chimes, a perfect harmony. Sansa can't help but think of the eternity in Maegor's Holdfast again, joining her voice to the other women to beg the Mother for mercy. The first scream shatters the memory in half, anchoring Sansa in the present.

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere. . ._

"Mercy, mercy!"

"I yield! _Yield!_ "

"Casterly Rock!"

"Pinkmaiden! Wayfarer's Rest! Riverrun! _Riverrun!_ "

"For the night is dark, and full of terrors!"

Sansa's grip—or Ellaria's—tightens. They're secluded on a low slope, tucked behind a tree, but the battle seems much too close, and more brutal than anything Sansa has ever heard before. Obara and Daemon remain motionless, but Sansa likens them to shadowcats, fierce and deadly, preparing to prowl the area if necessary. Dontos Hollard quivers, trembling like a leaf, like a child, like Sansa once did in the Hound's shadow. _Not again_ , she promises, desperate to keep the vow. Her fears can stay hidden—she must be brave now.

"Stark!" 

"Tully!"

Agonized, Sansa wonders if Mother ever listened to Robb's battles and felt so powerless. _She was here_ , Sansa remembers, distantly. _Robb was born **here** , in Riverrun_. While Ned Stark ran south to finish the war on Robert's behalf, his new lady Catelyn stayed behind, caring for another unwitting, future king. Robert and Ned are gone, Robb and Catelyn are gone. _Now, it's only me, and two Tullys._

"Look at those fires," Daemon mutters. "How many, you think?"

"Eight," Obara guesses, flatly. "Or nine."

The battle rages on and on and on, storming through every named hour with a vengeance. Sansa's vengeance. She holds Ellaria's hand and stares at a single point on the ground, praying and hoping and wincing and wondering...who will be left outside on the banks.

_. . .and not a soul to hear._

A bloody Ser Ulwyck meets them at dawn, pausing only to hug a tearful Ellaria before gesturing them to follow.

"We won, my lady," Sansa's old knight declares, giving her a familiarly gruff smile. "Riverrun is saved."

And the prince? The Kingslayer? The riverlords? Edmure? Harwin? Sansa's worries meet her near the drawbridge of the castle.

Harwin kicks Ser Jaime Lannister into the mud, fierce as Tyrion's Shagga. Coughing— _not like Joffrey_ , she thinks, unwillingly relieved—the brother of the queen stares up at Sansa, thunderstruck, mouthing words she can't make out, until his voice returns to him.

"Lady Stark," Ser Jaime greets, recovering. "I'd offer you my sword. . ." He pauses, almost mirthful. "But I seem to have mislaid it."

"Ser Jaime," Sansa answers, politely, ignoring the rest with a prim look she once saved for belittling Arya.

Startled, Jaime Lannister laughs. "You look like her," he informs her, a curious mix of bitter and amused. "Lady Catelyn."

"So they tell me."

A flutter of activity atop Riverrun forestalls further conversation. "Who goes there?" An archer shouts. "We saw the battle."

"Ser Jaime Lannister," the Kingslayer pipes up with feigned courtesy, before Obara Sand steps on his foot.

Surrounded by what's left of her column and the piecemeal that was a Lannister host, Sansa takes a deep breath. The world reeks of death and the dying, suffocating smoke and sickening sweetness that can only be blood of the wounded. But, she has to amend, there's a hint of hope, however faint. A wolf, standing in the remains of its enemies. Unharmed, unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.

"Sansa," Sansa calls up, steady and sure, louder than she's ever needed to be, "of House Stark. I've come see the Blackfish."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not replying to all your amazing reviews—I'm trying to get back into the swing of classes again. I'll be better! And I hope you like this chapter (the fic's getting really self indulgent now). I'm sneaking in a favorite character in the next one. Cheers!

The drawbridge descends, the gates creak open, and Sansa waits.

"He's not _that_ impressive, you know," Ser Jaime opines, unhelpfully. "The old man."

"Now, now, ser," Prince Oberyn chides. "Speak again and I'll send your tongue to your sister."

A knight in black cloak meets them on the bridge, his features craggy and windburnt. Beneath bushy eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes _—like Mother's, like mine_ , Sansa thinks, holding her breath—take in the group before him. After a moment, he cracks a smile.

"You've brought me a present, child," the Blackfish remarks.

A flutter of relief fills Sansa's heart. "It's only fair, ser," she replies, smiling back. "I've missed quite a few of your namedays."

* * *

After her bath, Gwen and one of the few servants left in the castle dig out one of Lady Catelyn's girlhood dresses for Sansa to wear. It's long out of style, but far prettier than her sparrow gown. She studies her reflection in the mirror for a time, trying to see. _At this angle, maybe..._ She shakes her head, disappointed, abandoning the search. No. She won't find her mother here anymore, only shadows.

Two spearmen greet her in murmurs as she picks her way up to the battlements. Ser Brynden does a double take at the sight of her.

"Uncanny."

She joins him at the walls, peering down at the remains of the siege. In the morning light, the destruction is scattered in every direction, looking less and less like the glorious stories of war her brothers loved and more like 'The Day They Hanged Black Robin'. The song is a sad one, she recalls, tracing her gaze over the wreckage in silence, wanting to remember it. Upended wayns pepper the land like cairns. Collapsed tents sag into the mud. Anything of value in destroyed pavilions is brought into Riverrun's keep, the spoils of victory. A score of prisoners line up to enter the castle, surrounded and directed by the fish-helmed men of Ser Brynden's garrison. Above them, above everyone, columns of smoke rise into the sky, the remnants of every pitch fire set by Harwin's brotherhood.

"When I saw our siege was relieved..." Brynden trails off, thoughtful. "I did not expect it would be by you, Sansa."

"Nor did I, ser," she admits. "My plan was to contact you by other means."

"There's conflicting reports about you as of late, my lady. One said you married the Imp...another insisted you mauled the king and queen at the wedding." The Blackfish studies her, unabashedly curious. "A third suggested you fled to the Vale, to your aunt Lysa."

"We considered the Vale."

"'We'?"

She smiles briefly. "Prince Oberyn of Dorne. His paramour, Ellaria. A few knights, all sworn to me. Harwin, my father's man."

Brynden looks perplexed. "And they just...helped you. Just like that?"

"They smuggled me out of King's Landing, ser," Sansa informs him, misliking the doubt in his voice. She returns her gaze to the leagues and leagues beyond them, set between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. "If they hadn't, I _would've_ been married to Tyrion so the Lannisters could claim the North for themselves. That's all they wanted after...after Robb," she continues, angry. "My claim."

That quiets the Blackfish for a time, long enough for Sansa to watch see the drawbridge ascend again, shutting the newly freed Riverrun away from the world. Worry gnaws at Sansa, all too quickly. She hasn't yet met with Ser Ulwyck, whom she's begun to favor for advice. Has anyone gotten away? Has anyone discovered what happened? A single raven may be all it takes to reverse her good fortune.

"Your claim is Riverrun, for now. Raventree and Stone Hedge, if we can get Jonos Bracken to cooperate. Seagard—"

"Wait," she blurts out, laying a hand on his arm. "You're...you're going to help me?"

He looks amused and a bit exasperated. "Need I remind you of our words?"

 _Our_. Sansa's grin almost _hurts_. Mother's words aren't as quite polished in her mind as Father's, but they ring true all the same, proud as the trout pinned to the Blackfish's cloak, as the banner over the walls. "No, ser," she tells him, mollified, even happy. "I remember."

* * *

Riverrun is smaller than Winterfell, but almost as lovely.

Sansa explores the keep, committing new sights to memory—the view of the rivers, both of the baileys, the Wheel Tower with ivy growing right into the stone. She lights candles in the sept at each of the images painted into the marble, trying to articulate just how thankful she is. These gods (and the others) steered her luck. Without them, Dontos wouldn't have gotten her to Ser Daemon fast enough. Or, perhaps, the _Vaith's Vixen_ could've been sunk by a storm near Crackclaw Point. Randyll Tarly might have spotted her at Maidenpool, or the Elder Brother might have been proven false. Harwin's brotherhood could've hanged her and all her Dornishmen. The breaking of the siege could've failed, making Robb's kingdom truly lost and the Starks with it. Instead Sansa prevailed, again and again.

Sansa lingers in the godswood, too, glad to touch a heart tree of living weirwood. All her days in the Red Keep with the great oak were mere hints of the old gods, her Father's gods, snatches of words rather than almost discernible whispers in the leaves of Riverrun.

"You are lost in thought, Lady Sansa."

Prince Oberyn settles on a bench near the weirwood, glancing about the bower with interest. Sansa twirls a leaf in her fingers.

"I was praying."

"Forgive me for interrupting."

She pretends to think about it, toying with the leaf as if it's a queen's scepter. "I pardon you, ser."

He laughs, making her smile in reply. "My lady is gracious."

They sit in companionable silence save for the faint, slightly familiar whispers, until Sansa speaks up.

"What have they done with Ser Jaime?"

"Sent to the dungeons, I've heard," the prince answers, wry. Sansa's just relieved Ser Jaime is in their custody. If anyone, Jaime Lannister is a dangerous witness. "He's been a model captive, thus far." He hesitates, though only for a moment. "He's asked to see you. "

"Why?"

"He won't say."

"He can wait," she decides in spite of her curiosity, earning Oberyn's amusement. "What else?"

"Lord Edmure has some matters to discuss with you, along with Ser Brynden. Ser Ulwyck requests an audience, as does Ellaria."

"Ellaria?" Sansa repeats, accidentally shredding the leaf in two. "Why?"

The prince looks as sly as his paramour, enough for Sansa to start blushing. "She mentioned a kiss, I believe."

"Oh."

She studies him, searching for a hint of _his_ intentions. Unlike Ellaria, the prince is an easier puzzle, but only just. He seems...certain. _Certain of what_? She wonders with some frustration, debating whether to inquire how he feels about the matter or not. He's playing messenger and steward, advisor and confidant, seemingly flitting between Ellaria and Sansa for different matters without a care. She can't put her finger on what _she's_ feeling, let alone Oberyn. Will this bother him? _Does_ it bother him? Sansa settles for the obvious.

"It was nice."

"Nice," the prince repeats, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Shall I tell her so?"

 _They're courting me_ , she realizes, a bit surprised. Ellaria _and_ Oberyn. The thought ought to make her redder than weirwood leaves, red as autumn or the sigil with Tully stripes flying above the towers. It's...nice, she decides again, unwilling to delve further than that today. Her suitors are welcome alternatives to the others—Joffrey and his courtesy turned to cruelty, the Hound and his insults, Tyrion and his unhappy proposal, Margaery and her distance after the betrothal to Willas fell through. This has no compulsion to marry attached; Ellaria and Oberyn have each other if Sansa declines. There's no hanging threat of Ice over her head, destined to fall if she refuses.

 _And why refuse_? She's a wolf without a pack, with winter on its way. A kiss or two to chase away the cold...

"Yes," says Sansa, rising from her seat. "I look forward to the next one," she adds, pretending to be bold as they are.

"Until later, my lady," Prince Oberyn offers in echo of Ellaria, smiling.

He bows, she curtsies, and Sansa leaves the Red Viper to the discover the mysteries of the godswood in peace.

* * *

Sansa finds Edmure Tully in the Great Hall's private audience chamber, locked in a debate with Ser Brynden and Ser Patrek. Maester Vyman and Utherydes Wayn are introduced to her by Maester Cedrik. He announces Sansa to the room, breaking off the argument.

"...supposed to _do_?" Lord Edmure demands, before seeing Sansa. The fight drains out of him, undoing Edmure quicker than an arrow to the heart. _You look like him_ , Patrek Mallister commented, but Sansa sees less of herself in her uncle and more of Robb, sharper than the memory of her brother with melting snowflakes in his hair. The resemblance is painful, teeming with the shadows of the boys Sansa's lost. They would look like him if they lived to be as old. Sansa folds her hands behind her back, struggling not to start shaking.

"You asked for me, my lord," Sansa ventures, when no one has said a word. Edmure blinks, then nods.

"Leave us, please."

Edmure waits until the others save Ser Brynden are gone before approaching her, like one does a wounded animal.

"We thought you were lost, my lady," Edmure confesses.

"Please," Sansa answers, getting closer herself, "call me Sansa."

Edmure embraces her tightly, able to wrap both arms around her with all the desperation of a dying man. Sansa hugs him back as much as she can, wishing this isn't the _first_ time they've ever met. King Robert's party kept to the kingsroad on its way back to King's Landing, sidestepping Riverrun entirely. Sansa never left Winterfell before that, but nameday gifts from her lord grandfather and uncle always survived the swamps of the Neck to get to her. Now they only meet in grief, the last ones standing in a senseless war.

"Look the both of you," the Blackfish grumbles—goodnaturedly—as he strides over to join them. "Weeping and wailing."

"Ser Brynden," Sansa rebukes with a laugh, wiping her eyes, just as Edmure mutters hoarsely with a sniff, "I wasn't _weeping_."

They find places at the table, ignoring the high seat intended for the lord of Riverrun.

"You have my thanks, Sansa," Edmure proclaims, composing himself. "Ryman Frey had me on that gibbet from dawn to dusk. Without you..." He sighs, balling his hands into fists. "Without you, Emmon Frey and the Kingslayer would be sitting in my father's solar by now."

"I had quite a bit of help," Sansa admits.

"So I heard. Is that _really_ Prince Oberyn down there?" Edmure questions, intrigued. "My father offered my hand to the man's niece."

"That was rejected," the Blackfish puts in with a wink at Sansa.

"Uncle!"

Sansa tries not to laugh. "Princess Arianne would've been lucky to marry you."

Edmure's chagrin fades into something sadder, as the three of them remember Edmure's actual marriage. "My wife's at the Twins."

"Lady Roslin," says Ser Brynden for Sansa's benefit.

"She wasn't part of it," Edmure elaborates, not looking at her. "The Red Wedding. She tried—she tried to tell me...she wept..."

He hangs his head, staring at his hands. The Blackfish is impassive, closer to the statues in the crypts of Winterfell than a man Sansa can accurately read. _Why are you telling me_? Sansa wants to ask them, reluctant to put herself in Roslin Frey's slippers. That feels as wrong as Joffrey's plans to give her away at her wedding in the absence of her father. Walder Frey for a father? Every story of him that reached the Red Keep was twisted and awful—the Freys insisted Robb and his men became wargs and attacked Lord Walder himself.

"They have Roslin, but we have Edwyn, the heir to the Twins after Ryman," the Blackfish tells Sansa, ticking off the names with his fingers. "We also have Emmon, Walder's second son, Lady Genna, Emmon's wife...Ser Daven Lannister, the new Warden of the West..."

Sansa catches the last part. "The new one?"

"Lord Tywin is dead," the Blackfish explains, to Sansa's shock. "They say in his sleep, but..." He shrugs. "We don't know for sure."

Ser Jaime is theirs, Lord Tywin is dead. Riverrun has made captives of several Lannisters and several Freys. _And his sisters_? Cleos Frey asked before the Iron Throne, the onetime envoy of Robb. _Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on him_ , Tyrion Lannister answered, the former Hand of the King and onetime betrothed of Sansa. She remembers the day all too well, and how Tyrion looked at her. He's kinder than any Lannister, but no less a Lannister. _Would Robb have whipped Jaime, as I was?_ Sansa thinks, darkly. _Would Robb's northmen have beaten Jaime, as I was_?

No.

 _There's no one to trade_ , Sansa realizes, suddenly, torn between relief and petty contempt. _And no one as dear to the queen._

Although...Sansa remembers the queen as vividly as her own reflection. She snapped at slights, real or not, and behaved as nastily as her son as soon as she could. Her spies watched Sansa, memorizing every detail of her actions, tried to sniff out any imagined hints of disloyalty. Any talk of the other kings in the war angered her—only Joffrey was the truest in her eyes. Would a queen so cruel dare ransom her brother to...to whom? What king? What kingdom? Sansa retreats from the thought. She forgot herself. Robb's _gone_.

 _But_ , Sansa has to concede, _this is an advantage. A safeguard, should I meet trouble on the road to Winterfell..._

"Does anyone know of the siege?" Sansa questions. "Six men saw to the ravens. A handful more killed scouts and outriders."

Edmure looks up. Brynden seems...smug.

"Clever," says her uncle, unflatteringly stunned.

"Very," says her great-uncle, inordinately pleased.

"It was Maester Cedrik's idea," Sansa tells them, flustered. She's muddled through, at best, unlike her skill with needlework. "Not mine."

"You could've ignored it..." Edmure points out, giving her the most peculiar of looks.

"You didn't," adds the Blackfish.

She hasn't earned the flattery, so she changes the subject, hastily. "Is there aught else, my lords?"

They lose their good humor. "In addition to our new captives..." The Blackfish starts, carefully, bushy eyebrows drawing together. "We have Lady Sybell Spicer, the wife of Lord Gawen Westerling. We have their son, Rollam, and their daughters, Eleyna...and Jeyne."

"Queen Jeyne," Edmure puts in, cautious.

Sansa draws in a breath, feeling as if she's lost the use of her lungs. "Robb's widow."

"He entrusted me with her safety, and her family's save one of her brothers, Raynald. He was Robb's standard bearer," Brynden explains, steepling his fingers. "Your mother thought Lord Frey would take offense with their presence. As it happens...she was right."

"We aren't sure _what_ to do with them," Edmure adds, tentative, the remark draping an odd chill around the room.

 _What to **do**_? What can be done? Sansa leans back in her chair, resting her chin on her hand. Her captivity in the Red Keep left her stranded behind enemy lines, unfortunately stuck on the wrong side until the collaboration of Lord Varys, Lady Olenna, Prince Oberyn, and Ellaria Sand came to fruition, and set her free. Under Joffrey's thumb, Sansa languished, fretting over every word and twitch. Wrong ones ended in beatings, or harsh rebukes. It was no life worth living, and none she wishes on children who took no part in fighting.

"If Robb entrusted them to you," she decides, choosing her words with care, "they cannot be captives."

The men relax at once. _That's the answer wanted_ , she sees, stung. _They doubted me._ Sansa tries to set the matter aside, as she did every insult in King's Landing, but the hurt lingers, plucking at old wounds with spearlike points. _They don't **know**_ , she reasons. _I'll show them_ , she determines, desperate to prove herself. _I'll going to be the Lady of Winterfell. I'll be a proper leader, a good one._

"They're my family now," Sansa informs them, sitting a little higher in her seat, recovering well. "No harm should come to them."

"Would you like to meet them?" Edmure asks, visibly relieved.

"Another time, my lords," Sansa answers, politely. They follow her to her feet, models of courtesy. "I need to speak with my men."

* * *

Ser Ulwyck meets her in the Great Hall, where the rest of her column is sequestered, patching up wounds and eating the best food they've had in weeks, if not longer. Harwin and the outlaws mingle among them, looking like true brothers to Sansa's Dornishmen.

"Good evening, ser."

"My lady."

"What news?"

Ulwyck looks grim. "We've lost a few of ours."

The chill from the private chamber finds Sansa again, winding its frozen fingers around her throat. "Who?"

Tristifer Toland, dead. Ben Gargalen, dead. Qoren Sand's lost some fingers of his left hand, and a great deal of blood. Two of the spearmen with Joss Hood were trampled by horses—one has already departed for one of the seven heavens, while the other begs the Mother's mercy to join him. Deziel Dalt has a new, grisly scar from mouth to right ear. Dickon Manwoody fights a fever in silence, gritting his teeth to get through it. The Lady Nym nurses a broken wrist and bruises above her collarbone, but bats away a servant's offer of dreamwine. Maesters Cedrik and Vyman flit from patient to patient, changing linens and easing pains with milk of the poppy.

"What can I do?" Sansa asks Ulwyck.

"Nothing."

" _Nothing_?"

He looks stern. "You have no knowledge of medicine, Lady Sansa. Our men are well taken care of." At her protesting look, Ulwyck draws her away, not unkindly. "You forget after all this time, what Ellaria told you truly. We volunteered to join you. These are wounds of war."

Taken aback, Sansa merely nods. "I simply..." She hesitates. "I-I don't want them to think I don't..." _Love them_ , she finishes, silently, before the guilt swallows her up again, and snatches the words away. "I don't want them to think I don't care about them."

Ulwyck Uller blinks, as if she just spoke to him in Ibbenese. He smiles. "My lady," the knight repeats, gently, "they know." Before Sansa can conjure up another disbelieving look, Ser Ulwyck steers her by the shoulder to look at the column again. "You've come to see them. Your uncle's maester is trying to help them. Don't you understand?" He asks of her, almost amused. "A lady who does not care would not be here. A lady who does not care would not house them as you have, feed them as you have. This girl..." Ulwyck points at a serving maid. "She's told me the Blackfish has enough food and fodder for two years. Yet...here we sit, eating the stores for winter."

 _Let them see you before a battle_ , Father always reminded Robb. _It gives them courage._

"It's the honorable thing to do," Sansa mutters, chagrined.

"Aye. We've heard plenty of Ned Stark's honor in Dorne. We'll speak of yours now, Lady Sansa."

* * *

Harwin finds her by evenfall, hidden on one of the balconies overlooking the rivers. She only moves her eyes to see him.

"Long day?" He teases, so familiarly bold it practically soothes her. She breathes a laugh, more than happy to hear it.

"Very."

"She's proud of you, your mother," Harwin declares, with another funny look on his face.

 _She **is**_ , Sansa hears, almost getting up to soothe _him_. Maybe Harwin's still grieving as much as Sansa is, with this talk of her mother, as if she was still present, living as she always had. Sansa tried that, too—pretending. If she never thought or spoke of the Red Wedding, perhaps the old gods and the new would take pity on her, and draw back the swords and the quarrels, the river and the dead direwolf sewn to Robb's body, and set the world on its proper keel again. The deception never worked; Joffrey reminded her too often, shattering the illusion. The gods _did_ listen, however, just in a different way. They sent her a Sand, a Prince of Dorne, a Queen of Thorns, and a Master of Whisperers. They rid her of the king, just as the Seven in Riverrun's sept. Exhausted, Sansa remains seated.

"She'll smile on me, I hope," she muses. "With Father, and Robb, and..." She plucks at the sleeve of Lady Catelyn's dress. "All of them."

In the moonlight, Harwin looks older than ever and gaunt as a skeleton. "Sansa..." Harwin pauses. "I want to ask something of you."

"You may." _Ser_ , she almost adds, but stops just in time. Harwin's no knight, but is a better man than the lot of them.

"I want you to swear, on your honor as a Stark, that you'll meet the rest of us before we go back to Winterfell."

"Of course," Sansa allows, bewildered. His vehemence startles her, but she swears all the same. "You have my word, Harwin."

"I'm glad," Harwin says, returning his gaze to the moon, now curled into a sinister crescent. "They're anxious to see you."


	7. Chapter 7

While the column convalesces in Riverrun, Sansa plans her next move.

North, always north...but where to go first? Setting down her bag of mending, Sansa examines the map in her grandfather's old solar, tracing paths along the parchment with her fingers. Following the rest of the Trident draws her to Fairmarket and Oldstones, then the Twins. The kingsroad won't be accessible near the east castle—Ser Brynden claims the Freys will guard it closely, per their agreement with the Iron Throne. _Petyr Baelish is our new Lord Paramount_ , the Blackfish explained, unimpressed. _Let's let him **believe** that._

There's always the Whispering Wood, she notes, crudely marked and named after Robb's victory. Sansa and her column can trek through it, make camp in Oldstones, and then march with haste to Seagard. The danger is at its highest there; both sites aren't more than a day's ride from the Twins, and Seagard is still under siege. _We were lucky_ , Ulwyck Uller reminded her. _That won't happen again_.

Sansa turns over the direwolf figurine in her hands. Moving on from Riverrun is a gamble at best and a grave error at worst. By Ser Ulwyck's estimate, her luck is running out. _Is he wrong_? She wonders, placing the piece atop Seagard, then back to Oldstones, then into the guesswork that is the true location of Greywater Watch. She can't afford many errors, if any at all; the coalition between the Dornishmen and cooperative river lords depends on her and her safety. _Think of us as a household, my lady. Only, our task is your safety_ , the prince said near Harroway. If only it were that easy—commanding a household instead of a group of people willing to go to war for her.

With a sigh, she places the Martell sun next to her direwolf and Tully trout and pushes all three into the thick of the Whispering Wood.

 _I'll be brave when I need to be_ , Sansa thinks, returning to her sewing.

* * *

"My lady," says Ser Daemon much later, as he catches up to her near the godswood, "Lannister's been asking for you."

"Again?"

"Again." He extends an arm, rolling his eyes a little. " _His Grace_ is expecting us."

Sansa turns her face away to hide her smile. Jaime Lannister as king? Sansa's own father would've never abided it.

The gaoler hands off the key with only a little suspicion, but mutters something not complimentary about Sansa's mother under his breath. Daemon takes care to shove him by the shoulder on their way to Ser Jaime's cell, handsome features twisted into a scowl.

Taking the lantern, Sansa closes the door behind her, shutting Ser Daemon and the gaoler in the corridor.

"Smart girl," the shadowed figure remarks. "'Never trust a Dornishman', my uncle Tygett would say. They're snakes."

"Should I trust _you_ , ser?"

She sets the lantern down on its hook, throwing more light on Ser Jaime. He's smiling, an unpleasant, vivid reminder of his twin. _This is the hero of Bran's dreams, the shining knight of songs._ He no longer looks like a song to Sansa—he looks just as broken as Harwin, and much older. War's changed him like it's changed Sansa, twisting every bit of him into something new, someone different.

"More than them," Jaime persists. "You'll see."

No one's spoken to her as coldly in weeks and weeks. It rankles. "Explain yourself."

He sits up a little higher, chains clinking together loudly. "They're going to use you, Sansa." She bristles at the informality, but Jaime continues. "You're the key to the North, and everyone knows it. Prince Oberyn _and_ Prince Doran. They need you. They want you."

A sliver of ice dips into Sansa's belly, anchoring her to the spot. She purses her lips, choosing her words with caution.

"Why alert me?" She asks, finally, trying to imitate the prince's blasé attitude. "You're my prisoner."

"I swore an oath to your mother to keep you safe."

Jaime Lannister may have just admitted to being the Smiling Knight. " _You_?" Sansa repeats, much too rudely. A mistake.

It's his turn to be rankled. "Yes, me. I swore to find you and return you to her in Riverrun."

Hiding her anger at Joffrey made her a quick study of a lady's armor, but the Kingslayer's words cut the courtesy's cuirass, gorget, and rondels as easily as knives through cheese, as arrows through flesh. _How dare you_? Sansa wants to demand.

"Fortunately," Sansa answers, icy, "the gods made a jape of you. I brought _you_ to Riverrun. I only wish my mother were here." _So we can laugh at you_ , she doesn't say, wanting the words not to be true, a slip up admittance of her dearest wish. Her mother in Riverrun, braiding Sansa's hair, assuring her that all of this is simply a dream, a nightmare that can be forgotten. The gods aren't _that_ kind.

"Lady Stark," Ser Jaime concedes, smile wan, even grim. "What's to become of me?"

"Ser Brynden assures me your cell is clean," Sansa replies, regaining her composure. She stands taller. "You'll stay here."

Ser Jaime spent a good deal of the war in Robb's camp. _He's too valuable to let go._ Or behead, yet.

"Until?"

"Until I have no more need of you." She looks down at him, thinking. "I wonder if the queen will ransom you."

"A ransom...unlikely." Jaime has the gall to seem unconcerned by this. "An army? Assuredly so. You know her temper."

"She won't send an army," Sansa informs him, eyeing the door. _How much has Ser Daemon heard_? "We found your seal, ser."

Edmure spent half a day poring over the possessions of the combined Lannister and Frey host. He saved Emmon Frey's missive from Tommen and tore it to pieces at supper, prompting cheers from his garrison. Other treasures were signet rings from lords and personal correspondence between brothers, half-brothers, nephews, all Freys. The Blackfish designated the maesters to scour every letter for something of use. That report awaits her after this parley with Ser Jaime. _For all the grief it's given me_ , she reflects, discouraged.

He catches on quickly, and sneers. "She knows my hand. Hands. A mummer's letter won't convince her."

Sansa isn't deceived. "Your swordhand was your right, ser. A page or a squire would write missives for you."

His sneer drops into a look of grudging respect. "Smart girl."

"The queen will hear of your valor fighting against a new brotherhood," she says, reaching for the lantern. "A story fit for a song."

She's nearly at the door, flushed with petty triumph, when—

"Stark," the Kingslayer barks, freezing her in place again with no effort whatsoever. She envies the talent. Sansa hears rather than sees him, but the words are as clear as day in the windowless cell, perfectly recognizable. "There's a woman I sent to look for you. A wench." He barrels on, admission spilling out with more feeling than anything else he said. _He's waited to tell me **this**_. "Brienne of Tarth. She swore an oath to your mother, too. She'll serve you until that wretched face is even uglier with age." He snorts. "She'll even die for you."

"Should I trust your word, ser?" Sansa asks of the door, frowning. He huffs.

"Doubt mine all you like, but..." He sounds softer now, old as he appears. "Brienne is a true knight, and all she wants to be is yours."

 _Mother allowed that_? Sansa wonders, uncertainly. This Brienne reminded her of Arya, mayhaps...her suspicions linger. Ser Jaime's demeanor changed so genuinely, a nugget of truth after their rapport fizzled and flamed like Harwin's pitch fires. And Ser Jaime sent her, clearly not expecting Sansa herself to beat him to Riverrun, and take him as her prisoner. What's become of Lady Tarth, regardless?

"I pray she'll serve me nobly," says Sansa. _Better than you served anyone_ , she deigns not to remind Jaime Lannister, and departs.

* * *

The knight's words and warnings chase after Sansa on her way to the godswood, plaguing every one of her steps with doubt. She even dismisses Ser Daemon, pretending to have a headache, but the lie begins to trail her too, persistent as a dog on a scent. _I cannot become the queen_ , Sansa thinks in despair, recalling Cersei's penchant for seeing slights that were not made, least of all from Sansa. Sansa has enough fear and grief to last her a lifetime, if not ten more—there is no need for paranoia to join them and bite at her heels.

The Blackfish intercepts Sansa instead, armed with news. She puts off her visit until evenfall, where the old gods have more power.

"The Eagle Sept is sending a dozen Silent Sisters," says Ser Brynden, easing Sansa's troubles ever so slightly. "They won't be long."

That will comfort her column, Edmure's garrison, and the river lords, who all lost men recently and have not been able to treat the bodies with the respect they deserve. Edmure urged anyone who would listen to bury them, and delay their rest no further, but the prince argued with all the might of a storm, insisting Dorne wanted the bones of its kinsmen returned to ancestral keeps and castles...

Edmure relented in the end, to Sansa's relief.

"Jonos Bracken ended Raventree's siege," the Blackfish adds, sounding unconvinced. "He and Tytos Blackwood ride for us on the morrow."

She tries to remember anything of note concerning the Brackens, but can't. "You mislike him?"

"I do. He bent the knee."

"So did Lord Piper and Lord Vance, Lord Paege..." Sansa reminds him, voice soft. "His king is gone, ser."

"The kingdom remains," the Blackfish insists, stubbornly. "He had no right." _Does it_? Sansa wonders, sadly.

She changes the subject as they stroll within the keep, fishing for more information from Robb's best eyes and ears. "And Darry?"

"Extinct in the male line many moons ago, thanks to the Mountain. A Frey girl with a claim will take it and marry Lancel Lannister."

 _We won't find support in those lands._ It isn't too disheartening—Lady was slain at Castle Darry. Sansa has no love for it.

"A final matter," the Blackfish puts in, one hand on the door of guest chambers and the other on her arm, "the Westerlings."

"I won't run off," she tells him, more anxious than offended. He removes his hand, a curious mix of stern and sad.

"I know."

She's been dreading this. While Riverrun itself has shadows of her mother in every corner, in her wardrobe and bedchamber and sept, in Sansa's mirror, in her thoughts and heavy heart, the shadow of Robb waits with her good-family, a broken bridge between them. _Do they **want** to see me?_ Sansa wants to ask the Blackfish, strangely self conscious, even uncomfortable. _What do I do? What do I say?_

He sweeps Sansa inside and announces her to the room. The occupants stare at the newcomers, and Sansa and Brynden Tully stare back.

Gawen Westerling, a distant part of her identifies, remembering the faraway look of him from the walls of Riverrun. The older woman nearby can only be Lady Sybell Spicer, still handsome despite her years. The children—Eleyna, Rollam—look closer to twins than siblings. They are children, she reflects, ill at ease. Her gaze drifts to the pretty girl furthest from the group. Jeyne. _Queen Jeyne_. While Sansa grapples whether to curtsy or not, embrace her and the rest or not, _smile_ or not, little Rollam breaks the awkward silence.

"It's an honor to meet you, my lady," says Rollam, bowing. He gives her a brave, tremulous smile.

"The honor is mine," says Sansa, returning the smile and the curtsy. "I welcome you to our hall and hearth." _Belatedly_.

Jeyne stirs at that, as if woken from a dream. "You look very much like your brother," Jeyne Westerling murmurs. Her mother scowls.

"Quiet, girl."

Sansa glances at the Blackfish, who looks grim. "She didn't offend me, my lady," Sansa tells Lady Sybell, perplexed. This is waved away.

"She's a fool, and so are you."

A new worry blooms in Sansa's chest, rooting as implacably as a weirwood. Cold unease follows, curling around the roots like fog. _There's something wrong_ , Sansa realizes as she clasps her hands together, an old habit. _Something off. A **mistake** , if I ignore it..._

"Me?"

Lord Gawen shakes his head, but Lady Sybell barrels on anyway. "We saw the siege. The Iron Throne will only send more men."

"Ser Jaime's missive to King's Landing will report a successful takeover of Riverrun, my lady," says Sansa, seeing the Blackfish's nod in the corner of her eye. He won't contradict her, despite his surprise. "I have his seal. His sister the queen won't know the difference."

"One raven won't stop Tywin Lannister."

"Tywin Lannister is dead," the Blackfish puts in, features like stone. "May the Father judge him justly."

"Daven Lannister is my prisoner," Sansa adds, obligingly. "No one will come for us."

"They _will_ , you little traitor," snaps Lady Sybell, to the distress of her daughters. She whirls out of her seat like a hurricane, advancing on Sansa like a hunter stalking prey, like a lioness of the Rock. _Traitor_. The word is a slap, a sharp reminder of life in the Red Keep. _That's over. I'm never going back_. Sansa digs her nails into her palms, forcing herself to remain still and immovable as stone. "They _always_ pay their debts. Ask the Reynes. Ask the Tarbecks. Ask the _Targaryens_. They'll come for us and they'll come for you—!"

"You forget yourself, my lady," the Blackfish reproaches.

"Mother," Rollam protests. Eleyna looks fearful, Gawen looks lost. Jeyne Westerling listens in silence, eyes wide.

"You've forgotten, my lady," Sansa answers, just as afraid as Eleyna. She perseveres, unwilling to surrender her pride again. "Winter is coming, not the Lannisters." This angers Lady Sybell, but it's Sansa's turn to barrel on. "I have the Kingslayer. They wouldn't dare."

"They _would_."

"My wife is right," says Lord Gawen, gravely. "I do not expect you to understand, Lady Sansa. You're young, a maiden..."

"I know the song," she retorts, shoving her discomfort into the the godswood to be examined later. "My singers sung it sweetly."

"You're a fool, girl," Sybell Spicer fumes, louder. "We should've yielded to Ser Jaime on the battlements, like his lord father said—"

"His father," Brynden interrupts, making all remaining warmth in the room flee in an instant. Sansa would give anything for Winterfell's hot springs at this moment—the room has become so terribly cold. She resists the urge to shiver. Sansa is made of sterner stuff. She stares down this Spicer woman as deliberately as her mother's uncle, until the bubble of anger surrounding Jeyne's mother pops.

"He knew we didn't betray him," says Lady Sybell. "He was going to spare us."

 _I missed this_ , Sansa realizes, aghast. _I am a fool_. The Blackfish jumps in, rescuing her.

"Your possets didn't stop after Robb left for the wedding, yet I do not see Jeyne with child. Tell us truly—do they make her fertile?"

Lady Sybell's eyes are frosty, almost as much as her voice. Her husband is quiet. The children are worried, even lost. Sansa is not.

Jeyne's well up with tears. She twitches a hand to a fresh scab on her forehead, as if to push up a crown higher on her brow.

"You had no right, Mother," Jeyne sobs, twisting a vise of shock into Sansa's heart. The silence and the deception shatter like fine glass, spreading the truth in every direction. A posset, Lord Tywin, Jeyne and her tears. The Spicers, the Westerlings—both belong to the Lannisters. Bannermen and oaths to a powerful liege lord. _Fool, traitor_ , Lady Sybell Spicer cursed at her. The cant of the Iron Throne. Sansa's own family were called traitors in court, in private, on the tongue of every enemy of Robb for as long as they drew breath. Both Robb and Lord Tywin were dead—the only people who called him a traitor were the ones scrabbling for Cersei's favor, and the only ones who denied it were men like Ser Brynden and Lord Jason Mallister, who flew the Stark direwolf in defense of Robb's kingdom.

 _Not a soul to hear_. Not even...Sansa's gaze drifts back to Jeyne. Not even a king's son. _Robb's widow has no heir_ , Sansa understands at last, despair swooping low in her body and joining the worry and unease in short order. That's what the Lannisters wanted, what Sybell Spicer's liege lord demanded. _He was going to spare **us**_. Not Robb. Not her mother. _There are no Starks but me_. Tywin Lannister got rid of her family as expediently as he had the disloyal Reynes and the disloyal Tarbecks. Grief prickles into her throat, sharp as thorns.

"You betrayed my brother," Sansa manages. _Robb's love and trust was repaid with this woman's meddling. Just like Joffrey did to me_.

"I protected my family."

"You undermined him," the Blackfish counters in disgust. Sybell Spicer is unmoved.

"For all the grief it's given me," she replies, bitter and so blatantly unrepentant. "My lord is dead, and all his promises with him."

* * *

"They must be prisoners," Edmure insists, apoplectic. "Not our guests. Not anymore."

"We aren't bloody Freys, boy," Brynden snaps back. Edmure bristles at that, going as red as his hair.

Sansa leaves them to it. She's made two mistakes, perhaps even a dozen. Trusting too easily—she's put faith in a number of the wrong people. Saying too much—because of _Sansa_ , Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell know she holds some valuable prisoners. They know she's _**here**_ , the fugitive the Iron Throne wants so badly. Sansa frowns over the walls of Riverrun, cursing her own recklessness. Joffrey's court taught her to guard her tongue, but more than a month away from it has her spilling important information to the wrong people. _Perhaps you're not so stupid as Mother says_ , Joffrey once told her. _I am_ , Sansa fumes, angry. _I've risked everyone in Riverrun._ How long until a new host arrives? Harwin's men can't pick off Frey scouts forever. Ser Jaime's seal won't deter his paranoid sister forever—

"You are sad, my lady," Ellaria Sand observes, startling Sansa. She picks her way up the stairs, elegant as any queen.

_They're going to use you, Sansa. They need you. They want you._

"Just overwhelmed," Sansa admits, feeling very tired. Ellaria's smile warms her a little in the cutting breeze and stormy clouds of the afternoon, although a shadow of doubt breathes a chill on her neck. Can she trust Ellaria Sand? Ellaria's involvement seems the most thoughtless in retrospect—all she wanted was to see Sansa's smile. Her prince is another matter. The riverlords, the Lannisters, the Freys, the Westerlings, these two Tully uncles, Dorne at the prince's heels, Harwin's men, any northmen who would fight for her...every one of them wanted something of her. Want something. They are all other matters, all other wants, and they all are pulling her in separate directions. At this moment, only Ellaria's request seems feasible, the only thing that will not pull at Sansa so hard, she'll snap.

"You're Lady of Riverrun," Ellaria points out, sympathetic. "And Winterfell. More than enough responsibility for one girl."

 _Your household_ , the prince called it. _No_ , Sansa decides, struggling under the strain, _I have three. Robb's cup has passed to me_.

"I am sad," Sansa agrees, reluctantly, tucking her cloak tighter around her as the wind picks up. "And...scared."

Ellaria's gaze holds a hint of mischief, a relief to the burden of the North, the Riverlands, and the people in the middle, the column.

"A wise person once told me," she muses, all innocence, "that the only time anyone can be brave is when they are frightened."

It's so charming, so free of a demand that Sansa has to smile, despite everything. Ellaria grins, though her eyes go wide after a moment, more surprised than Sansa has ever seen her. "Look," she breathes out in wonderment, pointing above Riverrun. "Snow."

A flurry of snowflakes descend from the sky, soft as petals, as kisses. They coat Ellaria's hair like a crown, looking utterly dazzling.

"I told you," Sansa remarks, brightening. It's the only thing she can count on, despite everything. "Winter is _here_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I deleted a lot of this and kept rewriting, but I think I have a handle on all my subplots now. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

"Look at that," complains the Prince of Dorne, peering down at the activity below the castle. "My snowman looks ridiculous!"

On the riverbank, Ser Daemon works on the likenesses of House Martell with a recovered Dickon Manwoody, curious as boys at the sight of snow. Some of Sansa's Dornishmen have never seen it, to her amazement. A snowball fight rages further inland. Spearmen and squires use overturned wayns and crushed pavilions from the siege as cover, hooting and shouting their japes to the other team.

"To be sure, my love," Ellaria opines, already inching away from the crenel with a sly lilt to her lips. "Your head is much too small."

The prince gives chase, darting after her with a yelp of indignation. Now alone, Sansa gives her smile to the frosted battlements. At this angle, or even this vantage point, Riverrun can almost stand in for Winterfell. There isn't a First Keep, or a broken tower, or even a Bell Tower, but it's enough to settle homesickness into her belly and snowflakes into her hair, melting in it like the melted in Robb's when he hugged her goodbye, like in Bran's room on the sill when she kissed his brow and prayed he'd wake up and start smiling again.

"May I join you, my lady?"

"Please," Sansa tells Jeyne, politely. Jeyne Westerling takes Ellaria's place on Sansa's right, shivering under her furs despite her attempts to hide it. She's been granted freedom of the castle at Sansa's insistence, along with Rollam and Eleyna, though only Jeyne and Rollam have braved the corridors beyond the rooms of the Westerlings. At _Edmure's_ insistence, her parents are allowed no such privileges.

"I don't know how you stand it," Jeyne murmurs, giving her a timid smile. "I can't remember the Crag ever getting this cold."

"It's always cold in the north, even in summer," Sansa confides, wistful. "It was snowing when I left."

 _I'm almost there_ , she thinks, daring to hope for it. _I'll be home soon, and then I can stand still. I'll stand still and **never** leave._

"Robb—" Jeyne starts but abruptly stops, stricken. "M-my apologies, my lady..."

"No," says Sansa, oddly curious. Jeyne holds a part of Robb that Sansa doesn't _know_ , a sliver of time where Robb was no longer a boy and a faraway brother in Winterfell. Jeyne's Robb is the Young Wolf, the fearless king Sansa secretly prayed for again and again in the godswood of the Red Keep. "Tell me," she requests, hungry for a sweet story after all the untrue ones of Robb and the wargs. "Please."

With her cheeks coloring so prettily, and her smile resting so gentle on her mouth, it takes Sansa no time at all to see why Robb loved her so much. "He said you all would play together in the crypts," Jeyne elaborates, shyly. "You and your sister would be the maidens."

"And Robb and Jon were the monsters," Sansa finishes, warmer all the same. "Robb played Florian, too. Or Ryam Redwyne."

"Florian?" Jeyne asks in delight, almost unrecognizable from her earlier grief.

"He never was good at being a _fool_ , though," Sansa adds, remembering that stubborn look of Robb's. "He was too proud."

Jeyne hums in answer, fond and only a little sad. "Proud and honorable," she murmurs. "He wouldn't hear of...of me and a bastard."

 _Because of Jon_ , Sansa realizes, throat tightening. _Because of Father_. The ache of missing them is as well worn as old boots by now. Sansa slips them on in her mind with resignation, unable to see a day where the losses aren't always with her, shadowing her steps.

"That sounds like him."

They stand in silence for another moment, until Jeyne blurts out, "I want to go with you."

It's enough for Sansa to glance at her again, dragging her gaze from the merriment below. "My l—Your Grace?"

"To Winterfell. Your home. I-I want to go with you," Jeyne rushes to explain, fervor chasing away her hesitations. "When you leave."

"But..." Sansa trails off, stupidly. "Your family—"

"My mother wanted a Lannister marriage for me," Jeyne says, quickly, furiously. The snowflakes floating down to the riverbank bring Jeyne's grief with them, leaving only a determined girl only a bit older than Sansa and the deluge of words that fly out of her mouth like ravens out of rookeries. "I can't—she'll-she'll make me marry one of _them_. I won't go back there. Back to the Crag. Not ever."

Sansa was very nearly made a Lannister herself, and only luckily escaped the Red Keep, vowing never to return. There's something frighteningly familiar in Sybell Spicer, a woman who is a mere shadow to Cersei Lannister. _Even a shadow of the queen regent is something to fear._ And Jeyne...Robb made a sister out of her for Sansa. They are family in the eyes of gods and men, a living— _living_ —impression of a family Sansa lost. _I won't leave her behind, not like I was_ , Sansa decides, following the route Robb would've traveled.

"I'd be happy to have you with us, Your Grace."

"Jeyne, please," Jeyne Westerling replies, rueful. "I don't..." She pauses. "I'm not the queen anymore. Not without...I don't want to be."

 _If not you, then who_?

"You can be my lady, if you wanted," Sansa offers, feeling something thaw out in her chest and loosen in relief. "Another Lady Stark."

This makes Jeyne smile, easy and slow, like the first touches of dawn. "Two of us in one castle? That sounds...terribly confusing," she muses, teasing and tentative, as careful with her japes as Sansa is with her courtesies. If Jeyne's smiles are dawn, the sense of a new friendship fluttering between their furs is a thread woven into another and another and another. The start of something lovely, like a new dress. It's Sansa's turn to smile. _I could use another friend_.

A friend who understands what it means to lose every bit of hope you had, only to find once again in the most unexpected places.

"Well..." Sansa trails off, considering permanent solutions and longer ties. "Winterfell needs a steward. Are you good with sums?"

She has no time to worry over this new recklessness and insult of lowering—on the contrary, Jeyne seems...relieved, even appreciative of it. _My Jeyne was a steward's daughter_ , Sansa reflects, reburying that old grief in Riverrun's godswood to be reexamined on the morrow with all the others. _And I can offer nothing **higher** , save an unwanted marriage to one of the my bannermen in the North_.

"Better than my brothers, my lady," is the answer, served with a modest look.

Sansa gathers a little snow and flicks it over Jeyne, as if she's a septon with holy oils. "There," she explains, "Now I've named you."

Jeyne curtsies low enough to get some snow of her own and toss it right back, new grin making her heart-shaped face show dimples.

Following the long gone paramour, the prince, and the giggling figure of Winterfell's newest steward, Sansa gives chase.

* * *

As Riverrun waits for Edmure's bannermen to return, Sansa tries her hand at running a castle.

Desmond Grell gives her a thorough explanation of his duties as master-at-arms. He's keeping the garrison sharp and experimenting with the styles recently brought to him by Sansa's Dornishmen. Robin Ryger illustrates the duties of his guards and escorts her through patrol routes himself, detailing new ideas for the castle's defenses. When asked, Utherydes Wayn dredges up Riverrun's accounts, laying out how much coin in taxes the castle receives from the Riverlands, how much was previously sent away to royal purses, and finally, the state of the stores for winter. Taking the solar for her own again, Sansa recounts the latter to her dinner guests with new dismay.

"We should move on soon," Ellaria suggests. "The granary won't recover from all of us."

"We shouldn't go anywhere until the Kingslayer's head is on a spike," Obara opines, mulishly. Nym arches her eyebrows, approving.

"And let the snows ruin Ser Jaime's face?" Oberyn waves this away. "Best wait on that, I say."

Sullen, Obara picks at her plate. Only vaguely can Sansa relate—oftentimes it feels as if she and the others do nothing but wait. Wait for news, wait for discovery, wait for a day _without_ snow. The riverlords are on their way, though the weather slows their progress; Ser Brynden and the garrison report no sightings of ill tidings, only sparrows; the sky delivers a chill to all the arable land it can possibly find.

The weather paralyzes Sansa's plan to go north for a time, as does the upkeep of their hostages. The Westerlings are ensconced in the guest wing, isolated from the rookery. In the dark of the dungeons, Genna Lannister complains, Jaime Lannister broods, Daven Lannister grumbles, Emmon Frey rages, and Edwyn Frey threatens, spittle flying from his mouth and curses cutting past his teeth. By right of birth, the five of them should be housed just as respectfully as the Westerlings, but Edmure's charity runs only so far. 

"They'll come for me," Edwyn curses, fixing his cruel eyes on Sansa. "I can't _wait_ to see what they do to you, wolf bitch."

Sansa simply looks at him, shoulder to shoulder with the Blackfish. He's a pillar of strength to her now, a foundation to draw from.

"Let them come," she tells Edwyn Frey, feigning a certainty that's still tantalizingly out of reach. "You've already doomed."

"Doomed?" Ser Brynden repeats once they are out of earshot and making their way back up the stairs and into the inner bailey. He seems amused. They enter the sept—Sansa enters out of habit, and the Blackfish follows without pretext to continue their conversation—and stop before the Father. _Justice and vengeance_ , the prince insisted, though the Father seems disinterested in the second part. _That_ belonged to the Stranger.

Sansa blushes. "I got carried away," she explains, defensively. In truth, she was thinking of all the wrongs committed by Edwyn's family. Oathbreaking, treason, regicide, the violation of guest right...if the gods truly smiled on Sansa and sent the Dornish to save her, then they _should_ be scowling upon the Twins and arranging a grisly retribution to anyone involved in the Red Wedding. "He's...very vile."

He chuckles, wry. "A _spitting_ image of Old Walder, I assure you."

"He frightened me," she admits, lighting a candle. Her father always said fear makes a man brave, but what of the women?

"Edwyn is more frightened of _you_ , child," the Blackfish tells her, ignoring her skeptical look to continue with the point. "He's far from his home and utterly without power. His brother Black Walder is a day's ride to the Twins and dangerously free to do as he pleases."

 _If Lord Walder can slaughter a king and live to tell the tale, what will a man do to a brother and a father to become an heir himself_?

"We should stop him," says Sansa, remembering the state of Seagard. She and the column can't slip past Black Walder's siege _and_ the foreboding, curse ridden Twins—the risk of discovery and getting trapped between them soars as high as Winterfell's many towers.

"We don't have the men."

The idea's only half formed, but it slips past her lips as if it's a finished one. "When Edmure's bannermen come back, we will."

He considers, craggy features crinkling in thought. "They'll need a leader for that. Someone to rally around."

"My uncle—"

"Edmure's not a Stark."

While Sansa fumbled for an answer to the question of Seagard, the Blackfish already had an idea, fully formed.

"No, but I am," she allows, realizing what the Blackfish implies after only a second's pause. _Oh_. "They wouldn't, ser."

"They would," Brynden Tully persists, lighting a candle of his own. "It's yours. _You_ are your brother's heir."

"To Winterfell."

"That's your seat, Sansa," the Blackfish points out, "but you're the heir to Robb's kingdom. The North _and_ the Riverlands."

"There's never been—there's never been a Queen in the North, or a Queen of the Trident," Sansa retorts, putting down her candle at the Crone to gain a little wisdom and to ensure she doesn't set her sleeve on fire. Her hands are shaking. _When did that happen_?

"Jeyne?" He reminds her, pointedly.

"She doesn't want to be the queen," Sansa says, cross. "And all the kings... _had_ queens, but they never reigned _alone_."

Old Nan would've mentioned that.

"Just think about it, Sansa," the Blackfish implores, putting a hand on her shoulder until she meets his eyes. "We're out of options."

She lingers in the sept a long time after her mother's uncle has taken his leave, struggling to accommodate this new worry into the abundance of fears she's stored since Joffrey became king. _I want to go home. I want to be **safe**. I want my family back. I want everyone with me out of harm's way—Ellaria, Oberyn, Ulwyck, Edmure, Brynden, Daemon, Harwin, Obara, Nym, Gwen and Deziel Dalt and Maester Cedrik and Joss and Dickon Manwoody and Qoren Sand, Dontos Hollard, Jeyne and Rollam and Eleyna Westerling, Ser Patrek Mallister, even Tom of Sevenstreams..._ She wants Margaery happy and back in Highgarden with her grandmother. She wants Tyrion to be at peace in Dorne. She wants Lady Roslin reunited with her husband. She wants Marq Piper and the two Umbers out of the Twins, free as the rivermen are now. She even wants Lord Varys to find a measure of joy in King's Landing, if such a thing exists in a city so cruel.

 _I want..._ Sansa spares a little sympathy for Sybell Spicer, albeit grudgingly. Wanting so much and gaining so little in return.

"I want Robb back," Sansa whispers to the Mother. "Can you do that, please?"

There's no answer. Sighing, Sansa lights a candle in front of the Smith. There's plenty of work to do, and a lady's is never done.

* * *

The Blackfish stays courteously quiet about her birthright for an entire sennight. She's grateful—it's not without merit, but she wants to study the idea from every angle first, and then fish around for alternative opinions about her options. Their options. _But who to ask_?

 _You look like a queen_ , Ellaria told her, the recollection now a lulling, intimate haze. Sansa flushes. No, mayhap not Ellaria...

"Lady Sansa," Prince Oberyn greets as she finds him in the godswood, carving something with a dagger. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine, Prince Oberyn," Sansa echoes, smiling at the memory now. So little changed, yet so much had... "What's that?"

"A game, as it happens. A trading galley from Volantis delivered it to Planky Town, where it spread like a plague along the Greenblood."

That piques her curiosity. "What kind of game, my prince?"

" _Cyvasse_ ," the prince answers with a flourish, plucking all of the pieces from the snow. "Join me and I'll teach you."

They stomp out their boots as they reenter the castle, heeding Utherydes Wayn. A hint of disapproval joins his melancholic expression.

"You'll catch a chill if you linger outside, my prince, my lady."

"Snowdrifts in Winterfell can get dozen feet high," Sansa points out, shaking out her shadowskin cloak.

The steward merely sighs, seemingly well accustomed to defeat. The prince, meanwhile, looks a bit horrified.

"A dozen?" He mutters, following her to the library. There's always a hearth with a roaring fire inside, despite its infrequent visitors.

"Forty," she admits, privately reveling in his shock. He's seen and done everything there is to see and do, by the talk, but she wonders if there are still things that can surprise him. She gives Oberyn a conspiratorial look, like they're old friends. "I didn't want to scare him."

They arrange themselves at one of the trestle tables, paying no mind to the shelves of scrolls and books lining the walls. On the table sits a crudely carved redwood board (more wood filched from the godswood, Sansa suspects), with numerous six-sided shapes resting atop it. Sansa examines one of the tiles with a slash at its center. _'I' for ivory_ , she guesses. More letters scatter the board—an 'o' for onyx, a 'j' for jade, a 'c' for carnelian, and two 'l's for lapis lazuli. On both sides of the board, wooden pieces wait to be used.

As Sansa examines a diminutive trebuchet, Oberyn divides the pieces evenly. "This game has driven Sunspear to madness."

"Madness?"

"Everyone wants to win, yet few know how."

She smiles over a piece of pointed spikes, daring to jape with him again. "Except you, my prince."

"Except me," Oberyn concedes, proudly. "My Obella favors the elephants too much, but she's learning."

Next, Prince Oberyn explains all ten of the pieces. Rabble, spearmen, crossbowmen, light and heavy horse, the trebuchet, the catapult, a dragon, multiple elephants, and a king. They move the pieces around to their likings, until the board rather resembles her grandfather's map of Westeros in the solar, where Sansa has moved her column and allies en masse into the Whispering Wood.

"The game ends once a player's king is killed," says Oberyn, indicating the piece with pointed spikes. A crown, she realizes. "Though," he notes, almost wryly, "that we have done already."

Sansa's cheer vanishes quicker than she would've liked, dredging up the doubts Sybell Spicer stirred in anger and unfulfilled wants and the fears Brynden Tully only deepened with the question of the future of Robb's kingdom. "You did that," she reminds him, voice flat. Sansa carried the poison to the wedding, to be sure, but ignorantly. Dontos Hollard played her Florian _and_ secret catspaw to Lord Varys and Lady Olenna—Sansa hasn't forgotten any of it. _The Blackfish wants to make a queen out of me_. Are queens so easily fooled?

"I did." He moves a catapult forward, killing one of her elephants. "A slip of the tongue, my lady."

Sansa debates challenging the point, but the prince's comment irks and irks. "Ser Jaime said I shouldn't trust you."

"Jaime Lannister is hardly trustworthy himself, Lady Sansa."

Sansa can't argue with that, to her dismay. Oberyn regards her over the board, toying with his rabble piece.

"Something's upset you."

Sansa hesitates, preferring to quibble over the placement of her heavy horse than answer immediately. She's been mercurial as of late, unhelpfully so. The words tumble out of her anyway, pursued by her restraint. "Lady Sybell called me a fool, Edwyn Frey called me a wolf bitch, and Ser Brynden called me a queen." Somehow, all of them sting and smart just as badly as the abuse in the Red Keep.

He places his rabble piece in front of her calvary. Trampled by an obvious error, Oberyn pushes the smallfolk off to the side. Sansa suspects it's to cheer her up in a way—she'll win soon enough if the prince has no more pieces of his own to play. Instead, Sansa pursues the thread of doubt back to its sources: Sybell Spicer and Jaime Lannister. Together and separately, they reminded her of issues so glaring she turned her face away, unwilling to look at them any longer when her safety became assured. _Can I trust you_? Sansa wants to ask of Oberyn Martell, trying to pick more a moon's turn of trust in him and the column apart from the sharp lessons that Joffrey's court taught her. _He—the prince...he saved me_ , she mumbled to Ellaria after they fled the King's Landing. _Did he_?

"Lady Sybell should wear the motley, not you," the prince remarks. "And Edwyn Frey is a sniveling coward, weaker than you'll ever be."

Sansa pushes the heavy horse forward a space, unable to look at him. "And Ser Brynden?"

"Ser Brynden..." He pauses. "He's not wrong. This realm is yours by right. No one refers to you as such, but you _are_ a princess."

A princess. She never dared to think of it. Wishing and praying for Robb to kill everyone seemed just dangerous enough. Even now, after everything, she intended to go home to be the _Lady_ of Winterfell. The Blackfish instead urged her to claim greater title.

"A realm on the brink of ruin," she murmurs.

"Some say Dorne a pauper kingdom," the prince remarks, undeterred. "Yours will survive, too."

 _Mine_ , Sansa thinks, mulling the word over. She can get used to that, if she only tries hard enough.

"Ser Jaime thinks you and your brother want my claim to Winterfell," she tells him after a long while, unable to let her suspicions go unaddressed and unresolved. She trusted so wrongly the first time, in Joffrey and the queen. Everything that followed the drips of her father's blood on Ice made the mistake seem so _clear_. Telling Cersei Lannister what Father planned led to his death, which led to Bran and Rickon's, Arya's, Mother and Robb's...she can't let another bout of misplaced faith in someone else undo everything she's earned so far. _Though_ , she notes, unhappily, guiltily, _half of what I've earned has been **because** of my column._

"Lord Varys wants your claim, my lady," the prince says, raising a hand to stave off her protest. "Allow me to explain." He leans back in his chair, gathering his thoughts. Sansa works to regain her composure in the meantime, remembering just _where_ she was. Riverrun is a Tully stronghold, the lower tier of Robb's kingdom, and her column—should they prove false to her dream of spring, her going home after so long—is surrounded by people loyal only to Sansa. They consider each other, game and amusement forgotten. _I came to him to fish for an **opinion**_ , she observes, curiously calm. _Instead I found...another conspiracy._

"When we met, I urged you get the justice your family deserves. Justice and vengeance, remember?"

"I do."

"That wasn't all I wanted in King's Landing, Sansa." She tries to hold his gaze. She's caught him off guard, more than anticipated, but the upper hand wobbles between them, weighed down by uncertainty and all that is unspoken. "What was it that Ellaria told you?"

"Told me?"

"Ellaria said she wanted to help you. What was her reason?"

Sansa hasn't forgotten about that, either. "She wanted to see me smile. She..." Sansa feels a new flush on her neck, like she's confessing a secret. "She saw—me." _Your sadness_ , Ellaria explained aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_ , seeing through Sansa's courtesies with ease.

"She saw you," the prince agrees, "but I _heard_ you." Oberyn's gaze is much softer now, again resembling a faint sky to the storm of his paramour's. "That king made some cruel jape about your brother, and all you did was agree with him. I mean no offense, my lady," the prince adds, quickly, expecting another protest. "I doubt anyone else could've stayed alive as long as you did, in your place."

He considers her again. _Don't mince anything_ , she wants to tell him, almost desperate. _I want the truth_.

"I heard how scared you were and wondered why no one was listening. I kept wondering—was the Mad King's court just the same? I heard so many tales of his cruelty. Burning his Hands, terrorizing his people, betraying his lords, shutting my sister and her children away to buy Dorne's support...I heard _your_ voice," Oberyn elaborates, words flying so quickly and fervently that Sansa nearly misses a handful of them, "and I wondered how long you would still have use of it. So...the plan changed. 'Take the measure of this boy king and his council, and make note of their strengths and weaknesses', my brother urged me before I left the Water Gardens. We waited long enough to avenge Elia and the stag's swan song had finally come. ‘Find us friends, if there are any to be found.' We had Varys, we had the ear of the Queen of Thorns, and I had a measure of your husband-to-be, Lord Tyrion. Then," the prince adds, "I heard you speak, and that was that. I wanted—and Ellaria wanted—you to gain the friends my sister never had in that ridiculous city, and to go home, in the way she never would.

"So..." He repeats, and shrugs. "The Mountain was near, and the focus of my attention. His master could wait. But the boy king also had to go. Lord Varys wanted it more than I, to tell you truly, as did the Lady Olenna. I suppose you'll understand _her_ reason."

"Margaery," Sansa ventures, recalling the queries of Margaery's grandmother into Joffrey's nature. He nods. "And...Lord Varys?"

Oberyn studies the board so long it makes her wonder if the game will resume with her questions unanswered and her worries only partially appeased. He plays with the dragon, running a finger along the edges. She's curious—how long did it take him to carve every piece? How long did this agenda of justice and vengeance take to craft? "Lord Varys serves the realm, as I'm sure Ellaria told you. The Spider has told me much the same, and spins his little web...we're just flies to him, you see. He believes we are caught in it, powerless, but I assure you, my lady, Dorne is not." He sets down the piece, slowly. "My nephew, Prince Aegon. What do you know of him?"

"The Mountain killed him," she replies, carefully, anxious of offending him. Honest words spin out of his mouth as neatly as yarn on a loom. Sansa wants to keep them coming, to keep spinning until the image is as preserved as a tapestry. "You avenged him and the princess."

The prince smiles, bitter and angry. "Oh, I _have_. Lord Varys, however...the man sincerely believes my nephew lives."

Sansa's eyebrows jump to her hairline in disbelief. "He can't." She won't say the detail, but the prince _knows_ it.

"The Spider has deluded himself into thinking my sister would save her son but not her daughter," Prince Oberyn explains. "Since the Sack of King's Landing, Varys and a Pentoshi magister have arranged for this stripling boy to be raised as a king. Someday, Varys will send this mummer's dragon across the narrow sea to reclaim his crown. You know your history, my lady. How many Aegons have sat on the Iron Throne?"

The first. Two between the Conqueror and the Fourth, who Joffrey so gleefully compared himself to. Then the Unlikely...

"Five, my prince."

"If Varys has his way, this boy will be the sixth."

She pauses to retract her hopes of Varys's happiness. Maybe the old gods will listen. "So...why does Lord Varys want Winterfell?"

"He wants your support," the prince elaborates, disgusted. "If you bent the knee to the boy, the North and the Riverlands would follow."

"And Dorne," Sansa says, connecting Aegon to Elia and Elia to Oberyn. Another piece falls into place. "Then the Westerlands, for Tyrion."

"The heir to Casterly Rock, yes. That's four kingdoms, just as much as the Usurper had first to topple the Mad King." As it all sinks in for Sansa, the prince puts the light horse in front of her last elephant. "Doran's let Varys spin his little web for many years now, as if our Spider is the only man alive with spies. All the more reason for me to rip it to pieces when Daenerys Targaryen finally turns to Westeros.

"My point...there were many reasons to save you, some more noble than others. I do apologize for deceiving you, Sansa."

He looks contrite now, almost boyish in his ruefulness. _Some more noble than others_. Something to consider asking of her column soon to weed out any additional ulterior motives (Obara's insistence on beheading Ser Jaime jumps to mind at once). These men and women are hers, but she can't bring them to Winterfell on a bad note or an uneasy footing. _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ , Father explained, drawing her close in his solar one evening after a bitter fight with Arya. _Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths._

"You did swear to me," she reminds him, not unkindly. Almost thirty holy vows spoken before her eyes. "But...you should've told me."

He inclines his head, conceding the point. _But, my brother lifts a finger_ , the prince told her, _and his will is done_. Sansa wants the same in the midst of this summer squabble. The only thing that she wants is to go home. Lies or not, they are all pledged to get her there.

"Shall I swear to you a second time?"

Sansa diverts her rabble piece from his bowmen to save her smallfolk, thinking it over. "You'll never lie to me again," she decides, firmly, finally understanding the heart of her problems since the fateful journey to King's Landing. _Pretty thing, and such a bad liar_ , the Hound hissed. _A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They're all liars here...and every one better than you._ If Father only told her, if Dontos told her, if Varys and Olenna Tyrell told her, things would've been a great deal easier. Not everyone will be as honest as her dear dead Hound, but Sansa wants to _make_ it so. Oberyn wronged her, and this is the price.

"I'll never lie to you again," the prince promises, turning down his own king to forfeit the game in a bizarre, strategic loss.

 _It's a start_ , she thinks, mildly, and resets the board.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay between updates. Hope it's okay, and thanks again for sticking around.

Blackwood and Bracken return to Riverrun together, bickering like children in the march to the doors of the Great Hall.

"...irrelevant, considering the circumstances," Lord Tytos remarks, a gust of wind carrying the words to Sansa's ears.

"I _will_ get my proper compensation," Lord Jonos blusters even louder, beet red with rage. "You'll see."

"My father always settled their petty disputes," Edmure mutters under his breath as he and Sansa wait to greet the two lords and the score of men-at-arms and knights at their heels. Many of them are staring at her, gaping like fools. "His cup has passed to me."

"Drink up, my lord," Sansa ventures, sidling a glance at him. An incredulous smile jumps to her uncle's mouth.

"You're more like her every day," Edmure marvels, and approaches Blackwood and Bracken. "My lords, welcome back."

"The hospitality of Riverrun is yours, my lords," Sansa adds, once every required courtesy is exchanged. They eye her curiously, attentively, but are companionably silent for the rest of the walk into the Great Hall. Blackwood goes one way and Bracken the other, hurriedly finding seats as far away from one another as possible. Edmure takes the high seat and Sansa the one on his right, the place of highest honor. This is noticed by Blackwood, she observes, as the Lord of Raventree looks from Jeyne to Sansa and back, intrigued.

The trestle tables aren't quite crowded to capacity, but the faces Sansa has grown accustomed to fill any available space. Harwin and Tom of Sevenstreams, Sansa's column, Edmure's garrison, the Blackfish, Patrek Mallister, and Jeyne Westerling join the smattering of river lords who braved the fleeting snows after the siege to return to Riverrun—Ronald, Hugo, and Karyl Vance, Lymond Roote, Clement Piper, Halmon Paege, and Theomar Smallwood. Any sons of theirs that were forced to serve Jaime Lannister as squires sit with their fathers, free once again. The chatter of the room stops as Edmure stands up, commanding the attention of its occupants.

"You have my thanks for coming, each and every one of you," says Edmure. "Without your aid, Riverrun would belong to the Freys."

Long lines of men cheer and stomp their feet in delight. He's right—Sansa's column and Harwin's handful of outlaws would've been cut to pieces without them. "But," Edmure continues, quieting the noise, "without my _niece's_ help, none of us would be here today."

The cheers rise again to meet Sansa at her seat, their approval climbing to a new height. Scrutiny follows the applause, though Sansa knows better than to squirm where anyone can see her. _Do you see me_? She wonders. _Or only my mother, as Edmure does_?

"We thought not to find you at Riverrun, my lady," Tytos Blackwood offers. "Our sources last heard of your betrothal."

"My betrothal was broken, my lord," she answers, settling for the simplest explanation. "When the king died."

The mention of Joffrey stirs questions. She can't quite blame them for it—she hated the king just as much as they seem to.

"Was it the Imp?"

"They say _you_ attacked _him_ , my lady!"

"No, 'course not! It was Stannis and his red woman."

"Quiet, the lot of you," calls the Blackfish.

Sansa catches Oberyn's eye. He shakes his head and touches his hair for a moment, until Sansa understands. _The hairnet_. It was Sansa who unwittingly wore it, not the prince or Lady Olenna or Lord Varys or even Ellaria. _I don't want to lie to them_ , Sansa reflects, uncomfortably reminded of her demand of honesty from Oberyn. _I've lied and been lied to enough already_. She can't afford an uneasy footing alongside the men who joined her to retake Riverrun—that isn't the kind of lady she wants to be, or queen if the Blackfish has anything to say of it. _Let them know **you**_ , Father told Robb. _They won't care for knowing Prince Oberyn_ , she realizes suddenly, fumbling in the dark for the right path to tread. She wants to ask for help, but turning to the Blackfish or Prince Oberyn right now feels...purposeless. An error in judgment that weakens her ground rather than enforces it. _Oberyn is a stranger to them_.

They should know her, like Winterfell knew her father. Sansa, a singular figure. _They'll need a leader for that. Someone to rally around._

"I played my part," Sansa offers, carefully, embracing and disliking the choice in equal measure. It wasn't her poison, but its use and her escape were both in her interests, and interwoven with Oberyn's. _I claim a crime to claim a responsibility_ , she concedes, viscerally reminded of Joffrey's coughs and purpling face. She never looked him in the eye—there was no time, not with Dontos hurrying her ever onward and Daemon Sand waiting in the skiff to spirit them to safety—like Starks _should_ do when a man deserves to die. _There will be others_ , Sansa thinks, stamping out her trepidation and unease as firmly as she can. Joffrey deserved to die, even if it didn't turn out to be by Robb's sword like Sansa wanted, or by the an executioner and a block. She would stomach that for him and welcome the nightmares, the tears, the guilt and the paralyzing fear, the sickening confusion of wanting him dead and wishing she never witnessed it.

That satisfies her audience well enough, to Sansa's relief. Cheers and hoots mingle with applause, thunderous as drums.

Timely as ever, the Blackfish steers the focus back to the purpose of the meeting: what to do _now_?

"There was no choice for your brother back then," the Blackfish tells Sansa quietly, as the assembly begins to argue amongst itself and toss ideas back and forth. When this question last arose, these men had just defended the Riverlands against Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin and the Mountain and supported the northmen's plight to rescue their own liege lord. The Lannisters had no regard for the smallfolk in her lady mother's birthplace—there was nothing _to_ do but rebel en masse and permanently break away from the Iron Throne.

"Kill the Kingslayer," a squire shouts. "Put his head on a spike!"

"We should join Stannis!"

"Stannis is at the Wall," Karyl Vance retorts, dismissive. "He can stay there, him and his red god."

"Another Usurper," the Lady Nym mutters. Obara rolls her eyes.

"We can't bend the knee, either," Edmure chimes in, enlightening Sansa to the main grievance. "They've taken too much from us."

A new proposal soars spearlike over the rest, straight from the lips of a grief stricken lord. "My son is still at the Twins," Clement Piper argues, commanding presence reminding Sansa of her own father. When he spoke, everyone listened. "We need to take them."

 _Marq Piper_ , Sansa recalls hearing from Patrek Mallister. _Two Umbers, with some thirty odd survivors who yielded during the Red Wedding._ She shivers at the thought of her column attempting to take it. The Twins are a cursed place, full of oathbreakers and liars and murderers. _And Lady Roslin, with Edmure's heir_ , Sansa remembers, disquieted. _Surrounded by foes feigning friendship, like I was..._

"And I thought Sunspear was going mad," Oberyn quips to Ulwyck Uller, looking skeptical. Ser Ulwyck chuckles.

"With what men, Piper?"

"And who's going to lead us, then?" Tristan Ryger questions. That doesn't stump anyone—a swell of suggestions sweep the room.

"Lord Edmure!"

"Ser Brynden!"

Edmure doesn't move, though he turns as pale as a sheet; the Blackfish rises from his seat, features grave. It's Sansa's turn to pale. Ser Brynden hasn't broached the subject with her again, but he apparently intends to do it _now_ , in front of nearly every noble House in the Riverlands. _I'm not ready_ , Sansa wants to say and shake him by the shoulders, just as another voice in her mind insists, _Winterfell is mine, it's **my** claim_. Robb's claim extended to the Riverlands, and now it belongs to Sansa. Taking something of Robb's puts an uneven feeling in her chest, weighed down by grief on one side and a stubborn craving on the other. Going home's all Sansa's wanted since she was shut away in the Red Keep, since the world turned upside down and stayed that way. _This is the way_ , she thinks, steeling herself. _This is the only way_ , she continues, wildly. _The only way to get home is to take Robb's cup and drink and drink and drink until it's empty. If I don't, the Lannisters will try to take it away from me again._ She catches Ellaria's eye now, remembering their first real conversation. _They say the Ullers are half-mad._ It's half mad to accept a crown, and entirely mad to assume responsibility for _two_ kingdoms.

It's beyond reproach to want it—to _want_ to snatch it for herself with both hands and refuse to let go, but her place is waiting.

The Blackfish is looking at her. _We're out of options._ There's no one else. No more Starks. The world flips again, and settles.

_This realm is yours by right,_ Oberyn said. _You look like a queen_ , Ellaria smiled. They study her now, sharp as hawks.

Finally, Sansa nods.

"Not I, my lords," says the Blackfish, imposing in his black scaled armor and stony look. "Your king left an heir, however."

There's a silence, a crest of nothing that fills Sansa with dread. She's worried they'll laugh, or they'll leave, or they'll protest, and reject her. Ser Jaime didn't seem to think of her as someone who moves pieces on a map. He called her the key to the North, not its heir. The Lannisters wanted to marry her off to Lord Tyrion to put a stranglehold on Winterfell _through_ Sansa, Boltons upjumped to Wardens or not. Even Lord Varys saw her as such—Sansa in her father's seat was a means to an end, only a knee to bend to a new princeling.

"Let's continue to rule ourselves," the Blackfish persists, putting a hand above Sansa's seat. His free hand drops to the hilt of a dagger at his belt. He draws it out, pointing the blade a foot from Sansa. "Here, my lords, sits the only _queen_ I'll bend my knee to." There's a hush now, curling along the edge of the Blackfish's words like a snake. Anticipation, she realizes, listening to the hiss rising like a cobra prepared to strike. Sansa holds her breath, immobile as a stone. "King Robb's only kin. The Queen of the Trident," Brynden Tully bellows.

There's a noise, sudden as the snap of a cymbal. Ser Patrek Mallister, more spirited than Sansa's seen of him, leaps to his feet.

"The Queen of the Trident!" He shouts, the opposite of the ashen man she met. Balancing perilously on a bench, Garrett Paege joins him.

"The Queen of the Trident!" Garrett yells, voice as thin as a lyre's plucked tones but constant, sure as sunlight.

Deziel Dalt's new scar near his mouth doesn't wipe away the brilliance of his smile. "The Queen of the Trident!" He proclaims, proudly. Her eyes lock with his for a brief instant, drawing her back to the _Vaith's Vixen_ , when this errand was closer to a dream than reality. 

Tytos Blackwood joins his voice to theirs, infusing the idea with more weight. "The Queen in the North," the Lord of Raventree calls.

Jeyne Westerling and Joss Hood are on their feet at the same time. Jeyne's eyes are shining. "The Queen in the North," they clamor, just as the noise approaches earsplittingly loud. Rollam scurries up to stand alongside his sister, throwing his own earnest voice into the mix.

"Stand up," Edmure whispers in Sansa's ear, as the cries grow in number. He's hoarse, almost beside himself. "Stand up, Sansa."

Half incredulous and half honored, Sansa complies, hiding her shaking hands behind her back. It conjures a memory—Father at his most imposing, towering over her with his hands behind his back and that solemn expression to match. Sansa tries to imitate that now. That and Mother's poise, that and Robb's high spirits, that and Arya's resolve.

"The Queen in the North!"

Swords lie at her feet. Hundreds of people go to their knees—servants, stewards, knights, men-at-arms, and squires, pages and lords, a prince, a paramour, a widow, a pair of Sand Snakes, two bannerless outlaws, two Tullys, two maesters, and a Dornish column masquerading as sparrows—putting Sansa in the middle of them all, high as the statue of Baelor the Blessed in front of the Great Sept in King's Landing. The feeling _here_ overshadows the powerful awareness that reached her in Harroway, if only by size and strength.

 _All for me_ , Sansa muses again, clasping her hands together in front of her body. _Robb's cup is now mine_.

"The Queen in the North!"

Catching Ellaria's eye, Sansa permits herself a smile. Ellaria returns it, then shouts along with the rest of them.

"The Queen in the North!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

* * *

"I must say," Oberyn quips, reclining in one of the solar's chairs, "I'm beginning to appreciate these northern theatrics, Your Grace."

He startles a laugh out of her, even if the sound of her title is an old thrill meeting new fears and new challenges. "Theatrics, my prince?"

"Your coronation, these outlaws...I should've spent less time in Essos. There's just as much to see here."

They sit before the map once again, assessing their situation for the umpteenth time. Situating her column in the Whispering Wood is only a start—as queen, she has to think of _all_ of her new subjects, including those who will be left behind after she marches ever onward. Utherydes Wayn took note of every grievance and arranged for Sansa to hear petitions starting tomorrow, as her new duty demands.

"We'll need to break the siege on Seagard," she decides at last, thinking of Ser Patrek. "Black Walder is in our way."

"Without alerting the Twins?" Oberyn queries, tapping one of the forts with a finger. "It has to be done quickly."

"At night, then." It worked once...

Oberyn places a trebuchet from his _cyvasse_ collection near the Green Fork. "Then what?"

 _Then..._ Sansa frowns. Take the Twins? Pass them altogether? One path brings her home all the quicker, the other raises new dangers and insurmountable odds. The river lords are weary, food is scarce beyond Riverrun's walls, and winter is here. A furrow sets between her brows. They can't leave Lord Jason to hold off the Freys forever—Seagard is too vulnerable if Black Walder's host decides to storm the walls. And the Twins...they can't be left undisturbed, not after nearly every crime imaginable was committed there in the Red Wedding. Allowing the Freys to survive the snows won't give her the justice she's wanted since the news of Robb and Lady Catelyn came to the Red Keep.

"We'll do...both?" Sansa says, unsure, trying to stave off her frustration. The true answer waits, though more patiently than Sansa.

Oberyn lays more pieces on the map, though this time they rest on their sides. Defeated, she realizes with dismay, and dead.

"A costly measure, my queen."

"I welcome any suggestions, Prince Oberyn," she tells him, reigning in her impatience as discreetly as possible. _His smile shouldn't be so handsome_ , Sansa thinks, working to appear unaffected. Her courtesies saved her life—now they ought to conceal a queen's thoughts.

"I _jape_ , Sansa," the prince answers, less beatific now. He looks almost pleased. "Arianne faces these questions, too." Oberyn collects the pieces and clears off the map, amusement plain. "My brother compiles many tests for her, you see. Quandaries, traps...puzzles worthy of Lorath." At her inquiring look, Oberyn continues as he returns to his seat, Sansa's interest trailing after him like a flower follows the sun. "In antiquity, there was a race of men in Lorath called the Mazemakers. They earned their name through their actions, as I earned mine.

"No one knows why the mazes were created. These men left no records. I asked why. Why keep the mazes a secret?" Oberyn asks of her.

"To hide something," Sansa suggests, frowning. Only the men who built them would know its secrets.

Oberyn toys with the rabble piece, saying nothing. She presses on despite herself.

"To keep people out."

Faced with his encouraging grin, Sansa reviews the clues. A maze. No records. The Twins. _The Twins_ , she thinks with a jolt.

"Only a Frey knows the way around the Twins," she concludes, earning Oberyn's approving nod.

"Dornishmen approach things differently than these rivermen, my queen. Your host is impressive, but not invincible."

"They have the advantage," Sansa has to concede, disappointed. Even a fool can see that. Her column and every available man would break themselves on taking the western castle before the old Lord Walder even considered admitting defeat. And if they _tried_ , the lack of food, the snows, and an ambush on their flank from Black Walder would take care of any remaining survivors, followed by Sansa herself.

"They have Lord Piper's son," she reminds Oberyn, almost desperate. "And Lady Roslin. I can't...it wouldn't be right to leave them there."

"It isn't right, Sansa," the prince agrees, softer, "but the pieces lie where they may. You can't satisfy everyone, nor should you try."

 _I want them to love me._ They won't unless she gets them what they want. _No_ , she reflects, _that can't be right_.

A knock on the door draws Sansa from her reverie. "Ser Dontos Hollard, Your Grace," Utherydes Wayn proclaims, and vanishes.

Dontos approaches the table with unfamiliar hesitation. The sight of him makes her smile slightly, in spite of how little they've seen each other in Riverrun as of late. It was Dontos who drew her from Joffrey's wedding, making himself a fugitive in the process—just looking at him is throws all Sansa gained into sharp relief. Ellaria, Oberyn, the column, her uncles, her freedom, Robb's crown... "My queen," her Florian greets with more recognizable meekness, stooping into a bow. Suddenly struck by the resemblance to Joffrey's court, Sansa speaks.

"You may rise, Ser Dontos," she says, gently. "What is it?"

That does the trick, to Sansa's relief. He beams and nears, bearing a piece of fresh forged metal in his hands. "Ser Brynden sent me, Your Grace," Dontos explains, lifting the circlet for her and Oberyn to see. It's bronze, thin in the band, and lacking any ornamentation save for three miniature longswords raised in the center. No Tully trouts adorn the metal, either, she notices, though the sweep and curves of the band reminds her of the meandering current of the Red Fork, where Sansa recaptured summer in that special afternoon with Ellaria.

Donto scurries behind her and lowers the crown to rest on her brow, before retreating to a respectful distance. "The smith finished it just this morning," Dontos adds, as Sansa catches her breath, adjusting to the weight. It feels...light, like she's not wearing anything at all.

"No jewels?" The prince observes, curious, as Dontos takes his leave with a smile and a skip in his step.

A little of her anxiety washes away. "Bronze and iron survive much longer than gold and silver, Prince Oberyn."

He hums in acknowledgment, regarding her from his seat in bright approval. "Ellaria was right," he drawls. "You _do_ look like a queen."

 _And now it's time to **act** like one._ Sliding the crown up a little, Sansa returns her gaze to the map, considering it again in silence. With an onslaught of petitions to hear on the morrow and a slew of inevitable questions concerning her plan, Sansa has to make a decision.

"We'll free Seagard first," Sansa resolves, unwilling to think any longer in circles. Riverrun needs answers. "Once Black Walder's siege is broken...any rivermen who volunteer," she continues, pushing the direwolf closer into the heart of the Neck, "will join us in Winterfell."

"And the Freys?" Oberyn asks.

She can't help but think of his urging— _justice and vengeance, you must get your own_ —and then his patience. She isn't her brother; Sansa doesn't have an army big enough to take the Twins. She has all the stragglers and the survivors, the fortunate people who escaped the Freys by sheer happenstance. And with winter...winter isn't ending now, it's just beginning. If Oberyn can wait over a decade for the right time to attack and _get_ the vengeance he wanted, then Sansa can wait out the winter, and strike when she and her people are stronger.

 _It's the time to take care of them, to save them_ , Sansa decides, thinking of her column again. _After Seagard, war can wait_.

"Northerners have our theatrics, my prince," she answers, "and long memories. The Freys will await my pleasure."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay between updates. This semester is tough. Hope this chapter's okay.

"It's only _reasonable_ , Your Grace," Jonos Bracken finishes, puffing up like a sail. "I deserve what was promised me."

Sansa is too well bred to fidget, though she wants to. Rickon always squirmed and twitched, more of a baby at three than Sansa ever was.

"Tommen Baratheon promised you those lands, my lord," Edmure reminds Bracken when Sansa doesn't answer. "He isn't your king."

Red as Robert with anger and peevish as Grandmaester Pycelle, Lord Jonos Bracken stands in silence, letting Sansa consider him. She hasn't taken as much of liking to him as she has Tytos Blackwood, who has almost no match in courtesy in Riverrun save the Lady Nym. The petitions started slowly, as Utherydes Wayn planned—a farmer pleading to stay in a lord's home for the winter, offering to do any work; a wandering septa asking for permission to oversee Riverrun's sept with its young septon; a boy with quavering voice, tearfully asking to be a page just to have a place to sleep; Ronald Vance, seeking permission to rout any passing Freys; Hugo, Ronald's brother, voicing a desire to carry Sansa's standard in the attack on Black Walder's siege of Seagard. Sansa grants what she can and tries to placate those left unsatisfied. The Blackfish, Edmure, Ulwyck Uller, and the two maesters take up seats next to her, near enough to offer advice if asked.

Jonos Bracken is the last petitioner. When Robb's army surrendered, Lord Bracken was one of the earliest to bend the knee to Tommen, earning the Blackfish's lingering dislike. Jaime Lannister was sent to lift Riverrun's siege, then Raventree's, bearing terms to entice even the most loyal of Robb's men back to the Iron Throne. A private conference with Lord Tytos gave way to the forfeit of Honeytree, Crossbow Ridge, and Lord's Mill, far less than Lord Jonos wants ("and all I plan to give him, Your Grace," said Blackwood, rueful and reluctant).

"You've gotten your lands, my lord," the Blackfish puts in, coolly.

A huff. "I deserve Buckle and Woodhedge as well, if not more, ser."

"More?" Sansa asks, clinging to her patience. "These additions will get you through the winter—"

Forgetting himself, Bracken scoffs, interrupting Sansa. Obara's glare joins Prince Oberyn's, momentarily quieting Lord Jonos. Stern and tired, the steward Utherydes Wayn stamps his staff twice, silencing the sudden upswing of noise from their whispering audience.

"My apologies, Your Grace," Lord Jonos mutters, not looking at her. A disquiet finds Sansa and takes root, worming its way into her belly. It isn't annoyance, it isn't offense, it isn't even fear, it's...it's worry. Jonos Bracken can hardly _look_ at her. _Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs_ , Lancel Lannister snapped at her on Joffrey's behest. _He's afraid of me_ , she realizes, watching the way Bracken stares at her feet rather than her eyes. She wonders what he's expecting after his disrespect—public humiliation, like she received in the Red Keep? Grey Wind, snarling in his face? _I want them to love me, not fear me._ Fear of Sansa is for her numerous enemies, the ones who won't know she's coming until it's too late, the ones who can defeat her in a proper battle, not in the skirmishes and surprises she's developing in her grandfather's solar with the help of her ever growing circle of advisors, led by a rather charming prince.

Joffrey may have enjoyed seeing terror from everyone, even those who served him, but Sansa does not.

"Peace, my lord," she tells him, just as relieved as he is when his shoulders relax, and he meets her gaze again. She needs him—needs all of them, ever single one of the riverlords who were never historically sworn to Winterfell—whether Jonos Bracken knows it for certain or not.

With much less bluster, he bows. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'm-I'm honored."

 _The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy_ , Cersei Lannister once told her.

An idea sparks in her mind, sudden as the Blackwater's wildfire, the very same night she heard the queen's latest bit of advice. _Honor_ , Sansa thinks, fixating on the word and following the spark. _Certain things are expected of a queen_ , Cersei continued, disgusted with all of the women she invited into the Queen's Ballroom for supper as the men went off to battle. "I have a favor to ask of you, my lord."

Despite his disappointment, Blackwood's rival puffs up like a sail again, eager to please her. He's like Pycelle that way, she notices, pursuing her inspiration all the more fervently. Like herself, mirrors of one another in the company of the Lannisters. _He needs feel important_ , she realizes, interested. Wasn't Bracken arguing with Blackwood the _moment_ they entered Riverrun? Sansa placated him with table scraps of what Tommen promised him via Ser Jaime—this is the time to flatter him, to cajole him, as some recompense.

"Anything, Your Grace."

Her advisors lean closer in spite of themselves; the room becomes hushed. Ellaria and Oberyn's eyes stay on her, ever mysterious.

"Our hostages can't stay here," she tells Bracken, as if the two of them are the only ones in the Great Hall, as if she's confiding a secret. "They're too valuable, as you well know. I thought, perhaps, it could be your duty to house one of them." She feels the Blackfish's gaze, but ignores it. "Once I return safely to Winterfell, you may ransom him."

Bracken looks astonished. "I—"

"Ser Brynden tells me your lands were burned," Sansa interrupts, disregarding Maester Cedrik's gesture for her attention for the moment. This is her judgment, not theirs. "Lannister gold can be your recompense, in addition to Honeytree, Crossbow Ridge, and Lord's Mill."

"Which..." Bracken looks torn between curiosity and poorly disguised greed. He licks his lips. "Which Lannister?"

"Not the Kingslayer," Edmure whispers, only loud enough for the men beside him and Sansa to hear. "Sansa, _please_."

Ser Jaime can't go to Jonos Bracken, of all people—Sansa needs him, the North needs him. Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister are a lower tier. Edwyn Frey, lower, and the Westerlings...she won't count the Westerlings, not if she wants to remain friends with Jeyne and Rollam.

"Ser Daven," says Sansa, prompting more whispers from the audience. Tytos Blackwood, however, is smiling. "Warden of the West."

Utherydes Wayn stamps his staff again to lower the noise, just as Jonos Bracken starts nodding.

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace," Bracken declares, grand and practically jovial. "You have my word as a Bracken."

That makes Blackwood's smile widen, although Sansa lets it be in spite of her curiosity. Eyeing the muttering lords in the crowd, Sansa reclaims their attention. "Lords Vance," she invites, still not yet accostomed to the constant, lingering focus of everyone in the room—they wait for her to speak, look for her decisions, and watch her closely for cues. _It's only been a day _, she reasons, settling. _Robb must have felt the same when they made him king. She watches Lord Ronald of Atranta and Lord Karyl of Wayfarer's Rest bustle forward in unison. "Lord Roote, Lord Smallwood, Lord Piper, and Lord Paege." The rest rise from their seats and join Bracken in front of the dais, forming a short line from one side of the room to the other. "I'd like each of one of you to take a hostage into your own custody, as a favor to me."___

"At once, Your Grace," Paege promises.

"I thank you for the honor," Smallwood adds, intently.

Piper is slower to express himself, so the request surprises her. "If it please you," says Piper, quietly, "I'd like Edwyn Frey at Pinkmaiden."

"Of course, my lord," Sansa answers, thinking of Marq Piper until the Blackfish catches her eye again, insistent. "That will be all for today."

Utherydes Wayn stamps the staff, dismissing the crowd. It shrinks and shrinks, leaving only the steward, the maesters, the Tullys, and a handful of Sansa's column. The river lords seem pleased with the arrangement, to her relief. No one seemed to notice who she left out—Mallister and Blackwood. Ser Patrek didn't comment, but Lord Tytos _smiled_. Did Sansa amuse him, or is there something else at play?

"You should've told us what you were doing."

" _I_ thought it was inspired," Oberyn quips before Sansa can reply. He's done that before, she notes, soothed by the thought. Jumped to her defense, offered misdirection until Sansa could get a foothold and rediscover her confidence. Ellaria, too. "Bracken looked giddy."

"Why?" Obara questions, giving Sansa something else to focus on rather than her annoyance with the Blackfish.

"Our queen fooled him. She got him to accept less than what he wanted, and solved the problem of Lord Edmure's guests. _Inspired_."

Handily distracted by the lilt of the prince's approving tone and the sight of Ellaria's ensuing smile, Sansa glances back to Ser Brynden.

"He needed a responsibility, ser," she explains, wanting...wanting understanding from her mother's uncle. "A sign of my trust."

"He needs a noose," the Blackfish retorts, striding to the window like a slim shadow. "When he defects to the Lannisters, I'll have it ready."

"Uncle," Edmure warns, scrubbing a tired hand down his face.

It's the Lady Nym's turn to smile, but Sansa ignores it and her sudden, uncomfortable twist of doubt, of indecision and disquiet. She can't allow too much worry to weaken her will—she's a queen now, a leader with a true title, and there are people depending on her. "He won't."

He _can't_ , she wants to argue, reviewing the idea again. Has she acted rashly, and spoken too quickly? She can't take it back, not after the public display. Bracken's bound by honor to stay loyal to her—almost every lord in the Riverlands heard his agreement, his promise...

"He won't," Ser Brynden admits after a beat, surprising Sansa. "He's in the heart of our country."

"Completely surrounded," Ser Ulwyck agrees, just as gruff. "Pinkmaiden's the one to worry about."

"It's too close to Golden Tooth."

"Much too close."

"What can we do for Lord Piper?" Sansa asks. Now that she thinks of it, Pinkmaiden is one of the closest castles to the Westerlands.

"We can spare some of our garrison," Vyman suggests, calculating the numbers. "Thirty archers, perhaps."

"Those men are needed at Seagard," the Blackfish replies, dissenting. "Edmure, had the Freys mentioned Condon? Or the Cerwyns?"

"Clegane took the ruby ford after the wedding," Edmure answers, thinking back. "They would've told me about Kyle Condon's death."

"He may still be alive," Vyman opines, gravely.

The Blackfish moves to stand before the dais, as if he's yet another petitioner Sansa's due to hear. Mollified, Sansa gestures for him to speak. She's familiar with House Condon, but not a Kyle Condon, though the Blackfish's trust brings him far in Sansa's judgment. "With your leave, my queen, I'd like to investigate Condon's disappearance. Roose Bolton left six hundred men behind before he went to the Twins—"

"And none of his own," Edmure mutters.

"—and Condon was one of them. He was the right hand to Lord Cerwyn."

"You like him," says Sansa, thoughtful. "How much time will you need, ser? We're leaving for Seagard soon."

He smiles, amused and not concerned at all with traipsing through a war torn Riverlands in winter. Sansa wishes she can be just as fearless.

"I'll catch up."

* * *

The Blackfish rides out before sundown, accompanied by a small escort. Sansa watches him go from the walls, trying not to feel afraid.

"He'll be back," Edmure assures her, red as his hair in the biting wind. "We have no finer warrior."

The date to leave is set— _tomorrow_. Rations are packed, horses are prepped, weapons are stored and carried, and Riverrun's people are ready. Sansa went down to see all the lords and their attending men, clinging to her father's advice about letting the people who fought for you to know you. She laughed politely at a joke of Patrek Mallister's, complimented the Vances on their bravery, and endured Jonos Bracken's fawning praise of her mind and skill as queen. Oberyn was her shadow for the evening, presenting a united, loyal front to the lords of the Riverlands. It amuses her in retrospect how much it reminded her of her father and mother greeting visitors in Winterfell.

Sansa nods, staying put until Brynden Tully's figure is gone. She steps away from the edge. "Will you join me, Uncle? I'm going to the sept."

Edmure shakes his head. "I—no. I haven't...not since my wedding." It's his turn to look...uneasy.

"It wasn't your fault," she tells Edmure, trying to understand him. He shakes his head again, more violently this time.

"I should've paid attention. I was a fool, Sansa. The signs were all there, I was just—I-I was distracted. I kept thinking about Roslin..."

"And only Roslin," Sansa finishes, locating the common element at last. It's all too easy to empathize with him—Sansa was just the same, wrapped around Joffrey's finger, ignoring Arya's anger and the Hound's sneers and Joffrey's own behavior until it was too late.

Edmure studies her boots rather than her eyes, resembling Bran so much in that instant it makes her ache. "I should to stay here."

"Here?"

"Robb depended on me, once," Edmure tells her, sadly, snowflakes collecting in his hair and cloak. "He told me to do something, and I—I ignored it. I ruined the campaign, and-and...then Tywin Lannister slipped through our fingers, all the way to the Blackwater to fight Stannis." He swallows. "I shouldn't have the command at Seagard. I should stay here, and...hold Riverrun for you, as I should've for Robb."

 _He's scared_ , she realizes, _just like Bracken_.

"They'll speak poorly of you," Sansa says, worried. Edmure shrugs, shoulders tight.

"They will, or they won't. I have other problems."

"Prince Oberyn can relieve you of duty," she suggests, but relents at his third shake of the head. "Then who?"

"Tytos Blackwood. My bannermen respect him, and he has experience."

"Lord Jonos won't like that."

Edmure smiles. "We can't satisfy both of them. _You_ can't satisfy both of them," he adds, seeing her chagrin. "It's impossible."

"Maybe Robb could," she murmurs, disappointed. She once thought Robb could do anything if he put his mind to it.

"Maybe, or maybe not. Robb understood the battles," Edmure replies, firm, taking her gloved hands in his own, "but not the politics. He learned how to be a good lord, of course, but being a good king or a queen is different, Sansa. It is. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I'll have to ask the same of you, my lord."

Edmure huffs out a laugh.

"I'll try, Others take me. I'll _try_."

* * *

"You did well today, Your Grace," Ellaria notes, as they walk arm in arm through the corridors of Riverrun. "You've come so far."

From the skiff in the Blackwater to the _Vaith's Vixen_ to the Quiet Isle and Harroway, to the furtive plotting with Harwin's men to claim the castle, to the capture of the Lannisters and Freys to inheritance of Robb's title and responsibilities...she's come a long way. They all have. "I couldn't have done it without you," says Sansa, taking Ellaria's hands and giving them a squeeze. It's the truth. Without Ellaria, without Oberyn, she would be languishing below the Red Keep in the black cells, as doomed to die as her father was. "You saved me, Ellaria."

"You saved yourself," Ellaria disagrees, smiling. "It took a great deal of courage to follow Daemon and Dontos to us."

 _Still_ , Sansa intends to protest. Intends to, but...doesn't. Sansa _intends_ to object, intends steer Ellaria to the right opinion—the right point of view, the only one (perhaps Ellaria's mistaken). It's the same one that insists Sansa is not brave, isn't brimming with courage like the prince, like the prince's daughters, like the prince's paramour, like the Blackfish, like Edmure at the gallows, like Robb on the battlefield, like Ulwyck Uller as a page in the time of the Ninepenny Kings and like Daemon Sand, striking out and making a name for himself. But...that isn't right, the part concerning only Sansa. Sansa's been a wolf in wait all this time since Joffrey died, all this way since getting from King's Landing to Riverrun, not a toothless pup hiding in her rooms since the Red Wedding and drawing the shades closed in grief.

 _I saw your sadness, my lady_. Maybe Ellaria can see what Sansa can't, and is patient enough to wait until Sansa can spot it for herself.

"A great deal," Sansa concedes, beaming. If it's a little _too_ impish for a queen, or too intimate...well, only Ellaria is around to see it.

Ellaria draws their hands apart, only to lift one of them to Sansa's face to stroke along a cheekbone. The touch fills Sansa up like only too much wine can—she's dreamy, dazzled, nearly whirling in the haze. Ellaria feigns surprise, a pleased little look to her, as if she's discovered something illicit. "Your head isn't quite as big as Oberyn's yet," she teases, making a show of examining Sansa's features. "Riverrun is safe."

 _Ellaria_ , Sansa almost laughs, but kisses her instead.

* * *

Encamped in the old solar, Sansa smooths out a crease on the map of Westeros, toying with the pieces again rather than planning anything. It's too early to hear even a missive from the Blackfish, but Edmure's words present fresh concerns for the future besides the loss of her best spy. Edmure staying behind in Riverrun gives her men with a strong base to flee back to if things go sour, but...what if they _succeed_?

They may. They _could_ , she decides, unable to let go of that small sliver of hope. Ellaria's right—they've come this far already.

"You've been staring at that map for hours," Obara remarks, sounding bored. She approaches the table, regarding Sansa coolly.

"There's a lot at stake," Sansa says, and that in itself is an underselling. "I can't let anyone down."

"You will," Obara replies at once, startling Sansa. Obara barrels on, as if she's been waiting all this time to speak her mind. _Have you_? Sansa wonders, worry coiling around her shoulders like a python. Obara's impatience was always in the background, only visible if one was looking for it. Sansa never did, and never thought... _I never thought it would happen_ , she realizes. Ellaria's approval and Oberyn's support satisfied her enough—the feelings of the rest of the column fell by the wayside once she saw them safely into Riverrun. "You can't make everyone happy," Obara adds, more brusque than usual no that no one is around to censure her, especially Nym. "And you're going to regret trying, Your Grace."

Sansa searches for an reply, unsure if this is Obara's way of preparing Sansa for disappointment, or the beginnings of a grievance. "Why?"

Obara makes a dismissive noise, like Sansa's asked precisely the wrong question. "It can't be done."

 _You can't satisfy both of them_ , Edmure told her. _It's impossible._

It _is_ impossible, she reasons, idly. A part of Sansa thinks of Robb shouldering the weight of a new kingdom when he was still a boy and not yet a man, suited but also unsuited for its responsibilities. Sansa has the patchwork remnants of it, the stragglers and restless, broken men caught between their loyalties and their own hunger in the worsening winter. Everything rested on Sansa's shoulders now, on the battlefield of Seagard, and all she can do is _wait_ for it. Wait and watch, wait and worry, like she did in the woods beyond Riverrun when her column and Harwin's men attacked the besiegers. It's an unpleasant feeling, being so powerless, but not entirely unfamiliar.

She's been wholly powerless before and saw her way out of it. _This is a new puzzle_ , she decides. _A new monster to overcome._

"I'm still going to try," Sansa answers at last, casting off Obara Sand's judgment with as much grace as she can. Oberyn called Sansa's hostage plan _inspired_ —Sansa hopes to recapture his wonder again in the journey forward, ever forward. _And_ , she muses, pleased, _that smile._ They were making her bold, Ellaria and Oberyn. Perhaps it's now the time to embrace it. "I have to try."

Obara considers that, for once looking more skeptical than abrasive.

" _When_ you fail, I'll remind you of this day. Very happily, Your Grace."

"I look forward to it," Sansa tells her, smiling as boldly as she dares, and then further. After a moment, Obara returns it, flashing teeth.

* * *

Morning arrives in a flurry of activity.

Gwen scurries between Sansa's rooms and the chambers Ellaria shares with Oberyn, dressing them in furs before Sansa sends her off to find some of her own. The servants bustle about, handing off food to the yawning line of Sansa's men. While Edmure and the majority of his garrison will remain behind to hold the castle and its prizes, a variety of knights, men-at-arms, spearmen, and stragglers under the command of Tytos Blackwood will march through the Whispering Wood with all haste. The only hostage Sansa means to take along is her own: Jaime Lannister.

 _The last time either one of us saw Winterfell_ , Sansa realizes, remembering the royal visit, _our families were much larger_.

She gives her chambers—her mother's—a final look, praying to the old gods that it won't her only stay in Riverrun, then the Seven for good measure. When she reaches the bank, Oberyn takes the liberty of helping Sansa onto her horse, quietly insisting even as she protests. Her will weakens at Jeyne Westerling's encouraging look and Ulwyck Uller's stern one, prompting Sansa to pay attention to Oberyn's meaning again.

"They need to see you," he urges, waiting until she understands the need. "Sunspear gazes upon Doran. Riverrun must gaze upon you."

And it does. Pages, stableboys, maids, scullions, knights, lords, and outlaws make a respectful mob around her, parting only for Edmure. She's sad to lose him—they hardly know each other, even after all this time. _I'll see him again_ , she resolves, determined. _One day._

"Good luck," he tells her, tone bracing. He even smiles, a slight trace of concern in his eyes. "The Freys will never see you coming."

"Hold Riverrun, my lord," she answers, immensely relieved when Edmure laughs, then bows, more boyish than she's ever seen him.

"On my honor as a Tully, Your Grace. I'm sure you know the words."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!

"Snow," Oberyn grumbles, pulling a branch aside to let the women pass and continue along the path. "And more snow. It's still coming."

"That tends to happen in winter," Sansa reminds him. Lady Nym smirks.

"Not in _Dorne_."

" _Rarely_ in Dorne," Daemon Sand corrects, grinning as Oberyn lets go of the branch, momentarily cutting Daemon off from the path.

"We aren't in Dorne, my love," says Ellaria, flushed from the cold but bright as ever, gracious as ever. "We're going _north_."

Sansa hides a smile, and keeps going, just like she's always dreamed of.

The army trudges along, almost in a single file through the Whispering Wood. Through the drifts, armor and helmets gather rust, the bodies of forgotten northmen and Lannisters litter the ground, and the snow shrikes cry overhead, the noise echoing around the forest. _This was Robb's first stand_ , Sansa reflects after several long days of marching, watching the procession from horseback. Next to Sansa, Jeyne Westerling follows the lines of soldiers, soundlessly counting. _My steward_ , Sansa thinks, pleased. _Winterfell's newest caretaker_.

Fiddling with his new glove to conceal his missing fingers, Qoren Sand lingers, humming 'Two Hearts That Beat as One' under his breath.

"Not that one again," Jaime Lannister complains as his escort shuffles past. "At least give me the courtesy of _requests_."

"'Wolves in the Night'?" Qoren asks, loudly, grin widening as Jeyne Westerling laughs, albeit shyly. "Your wish is my command, ser."

Ser Jaime rolls his eyes.

Progress is slow, but it's progress. Sansa can't ask for more than that, not since everything is now falling into place, perfect as a puzzle.

"'Seasons of My Love', please," Sansa decides, after Qoren asks for her choice. A smiles settles on her lips. " _Then_ 'Wolves in the Night'."

Oberyn's laughter chases away every snow shrike in sight.

* * *

Less than a day from Seagard, the Brotherhood catches up to Sansa.

"Your Grace," Harwin greets, helping Sansa dismount. He's thinner than ever, but spirited. "You're looking well."

"I'm _feeling_ well," Sansa says, truly meaning it. The bubble of anxiety, fears, worries, discomfort, and aimless anger is locked away in a chest, due to be explored on a later date. _The only way out is to stay still_. Not today. Not now. She has a strategy. A plan, a route, a purpose, as well as the means get all three of them.

"Careful," Harwin quips, amused. If Sansa tries, she can fit him into her mind's eye, standing with Robb and Jon in the yard. Arya joins the image, fleeing from Bran's wrath. This lightness to Harwin is comfortable. Satisfying. Missed. "I daresay Tom will write a song of that smile."

"Tom can do what he likes," Sansa quips right back, playing along. "He isn't _my_ singer."

Harwin laughs. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"Where _is_ Tom?" Sansa asks after a moment. Notch and Jack-Be-Lucky accompanied Harwin to the camp, but no one else.

He glances at the men who hover at the edge of everything, almost invisible to her eye beyond the hustling and bustling. "With our fellows," Harwin answers, drawing his gaze back to her. There's an intent to it, though Sansa can't place it. "You promised to meet them, remember?"

"I remember." She pauses, waiting for Harwin to elaborate. "Now?" She asks after another pause, voice carrying no hint of her genuine impatience. The breaking of Black Walder's siege is only half a night away. At this rate, she is catching up to her father's own record.

Harwin has the grace to look apologetic. In the torchlight, he seems more dour than Utherydes Wayn.

"Now, Sansa. They aren't far, truly."

 _I did give him my word_ , Sansa recalls, thinking back to her sojourn in Riverrun, cloistered away from the world outside of it.

The prince falls into step with Sansa before they reach the end of the camp, about as sinuous as his namesake. A flicker of...of something cuts across Harwin's face, but Sansa can't decipher it, again. Curling her fingers around Oberyn's arm as the motley group strides past the pair of sentries, Sansa tries to distract herself. Anything to ignore the rattling chest of mixed feelings and the whisper of apprehension crawling down her neck. _It's the freedom to do as I please_ , she tells herself once they are past the perimeter. Sansa wonders if she will ever get used to it. As a prisoner, Sansa needed to disclose her whereabouts at all times in the Red Keep; as a queen, she needs no excuses.

"Is Lord Blackwood ready?" Sansa asks. Without Edmure or the Blackfish, Tytos Blackwood makes an ideal candidate for command.

Oberyn chuckles, the sound chasing away the encroaching tendrils of a chill from her body. "He's counting the minutes, Your Grace. He wanted a sortie, but Blackwood soon saw sense." He glances to her. "The element of surprise has been your greatest ally. Why squander it?"

 _One of many weapons in my armory_ , she thinks. _Surprise, a great deal of luck, and a number of sorely missed friends_.

"We shouldn't be gone for long," Oberyn tells her, low enough so the advice is only for her hearing. He has to lean down a little to speak into her ear, she notices, distracted. Any closer and Oberyn will be kissing her. Unlike the earlier chill, she welcomes _this_ round of goosebumps. _Does he kiss like Ellaria?_ Sansa wonders, intrigued. "They'll need to see you." _Let them see you, let them know you._

"The Brotherhood isn't far," she answers, echoing Harwin. Sansa sounds more confident than she feels. "There are others I need to see."

* * *

They walk for a little over a league in silence, until Harwin slows to a stop. They follow his gaze to the trees as a voice drifts into earshot.

"Speak now, or you'll get an arrow stuck up—"

"Dennett," Harwin interrupts, loudly, patiently, "it's me and Jack and Notch. And your queen?"

Dennett makes a sound of surprise. "Fuck! It's the _queen_!" He appears, resembling more of a shadow than a man, and beckons the group over with his bow. Notch and Jack shoulder past him and vanish into the gloom. "Come along, 'yer Graces. Right this way now..."

"Quite the herald," Oberyn remarks, making Sansa smile.

They join Dennett and march ever onward into the black-as-pitch copse, where a familiar man stands just outside of a tangle of roots with a torch. Lem Lemoncloak gives them a brusque nod in greeting, but says nothing, only moves aside to let them through. _It's a hollow hill_ , Sansa realizes, when she sees the flames dancing across the earthen walls. Movement is as slow going as her army's plodding through the Whispering Wood—Sansa can _feel_ Oberyn's hand held securely in hers, but she can't see much of his body ahead of her. For a moment, it feel as though she's back in King's Landing, racing away from Joffrey's wedding with only Sers Dontos and Daemon to guide her to freedom.

The passage slopes further downward, knocking Sansa into the prince's shoulder more than once.

"Our lady's waiting," says Harwin after they reach a flatter plane, eyes only for Sansa. "She's been waiting a long while for you."

 _For me_?

"Your lady?" Sansa repeats, drawing her furs closer to her body. She doesn't remember seeing a woman in the ranks during Riverrun's siege.

" _Our_ lady. You know her, Sansa."

The phrasing draws her attention. Sansa _knows_ her? What woman in her knowledge would lead a band of outlaws?

The tunnel ends in a spacious cavern, illuminated by several small fires and booming with the noises of many conversations. There's dozens of new faces, young and old. _None I recognize_ , Sansa thinks, watching. Notch and Jack-Be-Lucky confer with Mudge in the corner, effortlessly melting into the crowd. Tom of Sevenstreams looks to be in a lengthy discussion with a woods witch. A septon is shaking his head at a beardless youth, while a number of children dart around the cave, chattering and shouting. A plain girl with a long face is the first to notice Sansa, and nudges her companion, who catches the eye of her neighbor, and so on. A hush chases away every conversation, every word, until the only thing that she can hear is the ripple of many breaths. The plain girl's eyes drop from Sansa's thin crown to her face.

"My queen," she declares with more certainty than Sansa has at the moment, dipping a quick curtsy. A murmur of voices mimics her, about as harmonious as a hornet's nest. Shadows grow higher than trees when the women lower into curtsies and the men bow, low and earnest.

The outlying smallfolk of the Riverlands. What's _left_ of them—Robb's people. **Her** people. This isn't like the residents and refugees in Riverrun that she found ways to placate; these families (Sansa hasn't missed that, the way the children curl around women's skirts and men's legs, eyeing Sansa with mingled trepidation, eagerness, and hunger) are living off the land in dire conditions. It's _winter_ and she doesn't know what to _do_ with them. The food in her camp can't be spread any thinner. There isn't enough clothing to fit more than a handful of men. She can't house more than a few of them better than the cave. A surge of frustration blooms in her chest. What _can_ she do?

 _The pieces lie where they may_ , Oberyn told her after her impromptu coronation. _You can't satisfy everyone_.

Harwin puts a hand on her shoulder just as she's about to speak. Or break. "Later," he promises, reassuringly. "There's time for them yet."

 _Not enough before Black Walder surrenders_ , Sansa wants to say, but she holds her tongue and follows Harwin to an adjoining chamber.

* * *

A man in a reddish cloak is stoking the only fire on this side of the hollow hill, a man she laughed about with Jeyne Poole so long ago.

"Your Grace," says Thoros of Myr, looking almost unrecognizable from their days in King's Landing. He looks exhausted. "Welcome."

"No flaming sword, Thoros?" Oberyn asks with a patronizing smile. Sansa's only seen that given to Lannisters. "I'm surprised, I must admit."

 _Thoros was a friend of Robert's_ , she recalls, smoothing her fingers along the back of his hand. No wonder Oberyn dislikes him.

(She likes this new habit. Holding the prince's hand. There's a returning pressure to her grip, and a glimpse of a softening expression.)

Thoros laughs. He doesn't miss the gesture. "Just as surprised as I am to see you with my queen, my prince. Harwin did _not_ deceive me."

"Hmm," Oberyn demurs.

Sansa misses the rest of the exchange. She's looking elsewhere. _Staring_ elsewhere. It isn't the tall woman dragged in by Lem Lemoncloak that draws her focus. The kindest squire of King's Landing isn't the one to get her attention, even as Jack-Be-Lucky kicks the boy to his knees, and shoves a disheveled knight down to the ground with him. It's the hooded, motionless figure sitting at the trestle table behind them, the one hasn't spoken. A gray hood—gray and ghoulish like the Stranger's—conceals everything but a pair of glowing _red_ eyes.

Sansa stares at it. It stares back. Sansa searches for the words, but her wits have nearly deserted her.

"My lady," the tall woman pleads, dirty and desperate and despairing. _She knows me_?

"My lady," Podrick Payne says, miserably. Why? What have they done to him? Sansa struggles to interpret the new developments.

The hooded figure touches its throat. Hisses a word. _An order_. Harwin's voice at Sansa's shoulder passes for a growl.

"She _told_ you to be quiet."

"This is your lady?" Sansa asks after she finds her voice. Oberyn's fingers tighten around hers. Then, she's hidden halfway behind him.

The woman barks another incomprehensible order. Harwin looks to Sansa.

"She wants to see you."

"Can't she?" Sansa asks, almost inaudible. She's...afraid. Who _is_ under the hood? The end of the abyss—the root of her fears—tells her it's Cersei Lannister. Trap. This is a trap. A more childish part of Sansa that believed all of Old Nan's stories insists it's the wife of the Night's King. ( _She's making the room so cold_ , Sansa assumes, shivering.) Or, what if it's that fire priestess in the service of Stannis Baratheon?

"Not well," Harwin answers, ignoring Oberyn altogether. "She slept for days before we found her."

"Slept," Thoros repeats, crouching near the fire. Harwin shoots him a dark look. "She slept like the dead until Lord Beric's kiss."

Oberyn's grip is getting painful, but Sansa welcomes the feeling over the clutches of a terrible fear. "Your kiss, priest? The stories...?"

"True."

The lady is more intelligible now. "Closer," she croaks, each of syllables resembling the scrape of a sword across a whetstone. It isn't like the warmth of Winterfell's hot springs or the mild, wistful surf of Blackwater Bay. The sensation of a _freeze_ has no closeness to the sweetness of summer and kisses in the Red Fork with Ellaria, or even the experimental visits to the Kingswood with Margaery and only Margaery. This woman in gray makes Sansa feel as if she's in the South Gate all over again, buried in a snowdrift and very much alone.

Sansa doesn't move, but the woman does. Oberyn's free hand goes to his scabbard, so fast it is like no movement at all. _His shortsword_ , Sansa understands with the slowness of a court fool like Moon Boy, feeling her heart begin to thump in uneven, jittery beats.

"I wouldn't, m'prince," Tom of Sevenstreams muses, idle mood and irreverent manners coming from the entrance.

"Not if you want to keep that hand," Lem Lemoncloak snarls, slipping into this side of the hollow hill like a shadow. The chamber feels crowded, like the air is dwindling instead of its warmth. Her chest of it all—the fears, the pains—is creaking, like the lock is getting picked.

"Take off your hood," Oberyn demands in a voice Sansa has not quite heard before. He sounds...brave. Defiant. _Are you afraid_?

 _Are we in danger_?

"That will help, my lady," Harwin suggests in a voice she _has_ heard before. In Winterfell. That's...not right. Something is not **right**.

The woman complies without complaint, without even another word. Mottled skin on clawlike fingers unravels the hood from her face. Wisps of white hair cling to a slip of a scalp. Her brow looks like a sickly green, a far cry from the blinding hues of the wildfire in Blackwater Bay. Patches of skin hang limply, like dying flowers before a frost. Deep set gashes stretch from her eyes (her glowing red eyes) to her jaw. Blood—Sansa _knows_ the brown spots are blood—crusts every available inch of flesh, mingling with yellowing bone in her features. Sansa doesn't know which one between her or Oberyn draws the sharp, terrified intake of breath at the sight, but _her_ head is spinning.

" _Our_ lady," Harwin repeats, very far away now. Sansa's aching. No. _**No!**_ "Thoros found her after the wedding, you see." He shares a long look with...with her. The gray woman. The dead woman. "She was...asleep for days, like she was waiting for us. She came back after Lord Beric kissed her awake." Harwin drags his gaze back to Sansa, bearing a closer resemblance to an earnest boy. "You know her, Sansa."

"Lady Catelyn," Thoros of Myr offers, soft as a whisper.

Sansa's blood curdles in every vein, immobilizing her from the inside out. The chest cracks open, unleashing all its contents.

"Lady _Stoneheart_ ," Lem Lemoncloak corrects, grunt as coarse as a Kingsguard's.

" _Sansa_ ," the woman rasps with effort, nearing and nearing like the monsters of Sansa's nightmares. Sansa can't move. She _can't_ move. "My...Sansa?" Bony talons reach for her and do not stop until the fingers take hold of her face. Oberyn's own fingers are shaking in Sansa's.

"Let go of her," the prince snaps with convincing bravado, bristling. The tall woman's gaze darts between him and Sansa, appraisingly.

"Quiet!"

"Do not provoke me," the prince hisses.

The fingers trace Sansa's cheekbones, seeming to search for something. Sansa can't decide whether to look—at the eyes? The rotting skin? The gaping wound at the neck, sliced open like an animal for slaughter? _Leave me be_! Sansa wants to plead. Sansa wants to retch up her measly breakfast. She wants to go to Seagard and find a place to hide, long enough to pull the drapes, lock the doors, and _scream_.

She doesn't want these hands on her face. She wants Ellaria's. She wants _Oberyn's_.

The woman's claws rise higher and higher, coarse to the touch but familiar in the gesture, until she's touching the circlet.

"Not _his_ ," says Stoneheart, like that means something (miserable, Sansa understands). Harwin accepts Sansa's crown after Stoneheart has wrenched it away, and distributes another. It's bigger but duller, with nine identical longswords meeting in a circle. Stoneheart replaces it on Sansa's brow, fidgeting and fussing like the woman she once was, the one who would've braided Sansa's hair every night if Sansa asked.

"Robb's," Sansa murmurs, sick and speechless. She _can't_ move. She never wanted to _stand still_ so early.

"Robb's," the specter agrees, remnants of her face drawing into an approximation of pride, gaze fixed on the crown Sansa has inherited.

Stoneheart's smile is the worst thing Sansa has ever seen until Oberyn, the bravest (living) man she has the pleasure to know, flinches.

Ulwyck Uller was right all along. Her luck has finally run out.

* * *

"No, Oberyn."

They've been left alone. Harwin gives as boldly as he speaks.

"No," the prince repeats, quickly. Sharply. He laughs. This time, it doesn't chase away birds—it simply makes him look half mad.

"No. You're _right_ , of course. _No_!"

"I can't go back yet," Sansa says, wearily. Her headache is pushing what feels like longaxes into her brow. " _You_ have my leave to go."

The prince's pacing only slows by half. "No! I'm not going without you. I won't leave you with...with all of these fools."

"I need to..." Sansa can't figure out what she needs. She hardly knows what she wants. "I want to stay here." For a while, she won't say.

Oberyn's steps draw to a halt. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, so hard it looks painful. "They need you at Seagard, Sansa."

"These people also need me."

"Do they?" He demands. "They have Stoneheart." His voice softens a fraction, then all the way. "Don't you know, Sansa? That isn't...her."

Your mother, _he_ won't say.

"I know."

Oberyn gives a shake of his head, like he hasn't heard properly. "Do you? Truly?"

Sansa, now occupying the vacated seat at the trestle table, shakes her own head. Her mother— _Stoneheart_ , a violent, despairing part of her insists—looks closer to something dragged out of the seven hells, or even an undead ghoul from the days of the children of the forest.

"Allow me to explain," Oberyn requests, and does. He tells her of the Free Cities. He's been to all of them, did she know that? In Lys, where Ellaria later gained a fondness for its love goddess, Oberyn learned about poisons and potions. He's studied the mazes of Lorath. He's bought enough Myrish lenses to make Corenna Sand aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_ jealous. In Braavos, he boarded a barge and courted the Nightingale herself. In Norvos, under its wan sun, he danced upon the Sinner's Steps. Pentos made him a mummer for a day and a night. In Qohor ("the City of Sorcerers," the prince reveals, pulling an unwilling smile to Sansa's lips), he learned about the dark arts. In Tyrosh, he was a sellsword and marched into the Disputed Lands. In Volantis, however, beyond its Black Walls is where Oberyn first heard of R'hllor.

"The fire god," Sansa supplies, drawn out of her misery for now (the reason behind sharing stories, she suspects). "Stannis Baratheon's."

He's calmer now. "When a follower of the Lord of Light dies, the red priests breathe fire into the body. The flame of life, they call it. A gift." It's his turn to hold her hands and stroke his thumbs along her skin. "These men believe it worked on your mother, Sansa. It did not."

Sansa can follow the logic, even if it pains her to do so. They brought back the body, even faint impressions of her son. Her daughter. Their names. His crown. Her face. Their shared purpose. But...what of the rest? Her mother's heart. The sword-sharp mind. The kindness, the dignity. The woman Sansa always wanted to be. She's just...gone. Her mother would not hang boys, like the corpses Sansa saw near Harroway. Her mother was devoted to the Seven—she paid no mind to R'hllor, like the Brotherhood does (the fires in the Lannister camp around Riverrun, Sansa remembers. That was Harwin's idea. Then, one man thanked Lord of Light once he heard Oberyn slew the Mountain). And the kiss. Lord Beric Dondarrion kissed the freshly _dead_ Lady Catelyn, the one that lingered in the Trident after the Red Wedding when the Freys threw her into the river in dishonor of her Tully funeral rites. _They didn't let her rest_ , Sansa realizes, stricken.

They brought her back after the worst day of her life.

"After Elia died, I started reading." Oberyn draws Sansa from her reverie. Their hands are still linked. It's making her...calm. "The Qohorik dark arts. I was nearly mad, Sansa. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't _think_ straight. I almost raised Dorne for Viserys Targaryen, you know." His mouth thins into a line, taut as lyre's strings. The words that strum past it are woebegone, bleak as the weather. "When Jon Arryn intervened, I combed over every book in the Citadel. Nothing worked. My Valyrian steel link was useless. Marwyn the Mage was useless. I considered Asshai more the once. Would a shadowbinder give me what I wanted? A maegi, perhaps. I just wanted Elia back. I wanted Rhaenys and Aegon. Nothing else mattered. When I wasn't drinking the days away"— _days beyond counting, weeks without number_ , Oberyn confided in her just outside of Harroway, destroying her preconceived notions of him—"I dreamed of raising the dead and nothing else."

Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon, returned to life _after_ the Sack. It isn't a pleasant image.

"Until?" Sansa prompts.

"Until a friend of a friend insisted I embrace the grief instead of deny it." _Ellaria_.

"The only way out is to stand still," Sansa recites. Oberyn smiles in answer. A spot of light in the shadows of the Brotherhood, she decides.

A just over a week ago, Sansa and Ellaria were ribbing Oberyn about snow. Only yesterday, Qoren Sand was singing sweet songs at Jaime Lannister's expense. The ground was ripped apart beneath her and it slipped her notice long after it was too late to escape. She can't move despite her _need _to, all the way up to a point of desperation—Sansa doesn't want to be anywhere near the hollow hill and Harwin and the men just as much as she wants to see if Oberyn's conclusion is right, that her mother really isn't the woman under the hood and R'hllor has animated a corpse. The smallfolk with the Brotherhood Without Banners need her just as much as Seagard and its people do. But...she's stuck. She's really stuck, just like the miserable, endless days within the Red Keep. Sansa has to abandon her indecision and pick one.__

She already picked the _wrong_ one. Obara Sand needs her well deserved opportunity to gloat about it—about Sansa's failure.

With a sigh, Sansa gives the cave a long look. " _I_ didn't bring her back, Oberyn. But I want to know what Stoneheart...wants."

Justice and vengeance, like Sansa. The life that was taken from her, perhaps. The family that was stolen from her in a just few short years.

"What everyone seeks after they lose all they hold dear," the prince suggests, a new grimness rooting deep into his features. " _Revenge_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back, I thought, and make this chapter _really_ dramatic. Yeeeeeah.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little angst ahead. Thanks for reading!

After she and Oberyn steal a few hours of rest, Sansa begins to gather information.

"Insinuate yourself," the prince suggests in a low voice, staying put. He's going to seek counsel from Thoros. "Get to know them."

Stoneheart is the respected—but feared—leader. "I've never seen her face," one boy whispers to Sansa, when she makes a few careful inquiries as she's teaching him how to play come-into-my-castle over a straw pallet. "Long Jeyne said she has, but I don't believe it."

"Liar," she insists for his benefit, until the game resumes. Sansa gives him a cajoling look. "May I come into your castle, my lord?"

He brightens, showing dimples. " _Yes_!"

Long Jeyne Heddle _has_ seen Stoneheart, contradicting Arron's earful.

"M'lady's weathered a bad storm," Jeyne explains as she tries to mend her sister's frock. Sansa offers to help, making surprise flit across Jeyne's face. When Sansa makes quick work of repairing the tear, Jeyne continues. "She takes care of us, Your Grace," Long Jeyne adds.

Sansa makes a questioning noise but keeps her eyes down, like it doesn't _really_ matter.

"She keeps us safe."

"From the Freys," Sansa guesses, finishing up. Jeyne inspects the frock with approval.

"Aye. Freys...and Lannisters, like her," Jeyne says, indicating the tallest of the three captives. _The one who knows me_ , Sansa remembers, momentarily meeting the woman's eyes by mistake. _What makes her a Lannister_? Sansa wonders, returning her attention to Long Jeyne.

"M'lady means to hang them."

"Why?" Sansa asks, deceptively casual.

Too far. Jeyne isn't pliable as Joffrey once Sansa ferreted out what to say to him to make life in the Red Keep bearable. Long Jeyne Heddle gathers up her mending, almost defensively, and searches for her sister with her eyes. Sansa knows a bid for an exit when she sees one.

"Because m'lady says so."

Accustomed to disappointment, Sansa pursues other routes to knowledge after the Heddles leave. Other _people_.

With one hand on resting on his hilt of his sword and the other around a familiar helmet, Lem Lemoncloak gives Sansa a wary look.

"What?" He asks, curtly, blocking her view of the captives with the width of his body. On guard duty, his likeness to the Hound is startling.

"I'd like to speak to them," Sansa informs Lem, standing her ground even after he levels her with a glare. Podrick Payne watches, nervous.

"No one speaks to—"

Sansa draws herself a little higher, so Lem's eyes are drawn to the crown. " _I_ do. Unless you want your lady to find out you refused me."

The threat is out of her mouth before she's found enough evidence of Stoneheart's feelings to support it, but the damage is done. The knight with Podrick cracks a smile, though he's so bruised it looks like a grimace. The tall woman, equally injured, monitors the argument closely, eyes bright with curiosity. Beaten, Lem's scowl deepens. Sansa stares him down. "Five minutes," he grumbles, shuffling away.

"My lady," Podrick says, gaze fixed on her boots. She doesn't miss King's Landing, but Podrick's demeanor is a comforting routine.

"Your Grace," the woman corrects, gently.

Ser Hyle Hunt is effusive in courtesy and prone to big smiles; Brienne of Tarth is controlled and adamant. The wench, on the word of the Kingslayer. Sansa controls her own expression, thinking back to her visit to Ser Jaime's cell in Riverrun. _He was telling the truth._ She and Ser Jaime haggled and put up arrogant airs, until that one grain of truth about Brienne came out and stuck, like an anchor in a thundering surf.

"I served your mother, Your Grace."

"Ser Jaime told me."

Emboldened, Brienne lowers her voice but hurries her words. Time is running short. "These men believe I betrayed my mission to find you, Your Grace. I swear to you, I did no such thing. Your mother bid me to bring you to Riverrun after Jaime was exchanged, but..." _Edmure's wedding, Joffrey's wedding, my disappearance..._ Sansa has no trouble understanding the delay. "Stoneheart means to hang us, Your Grace."

Lem's shuffling gait is getting louder. Stoneheart wants to hang Podrick Payne? _He's only a boy_. She doubts Ser Hyle has earned that beating, if all the three of them were doing was looking for Sansa. And Brienne...Sansa wasn't _lying_ to Jaime Lannister when she said she wanted Brienne to serve her nobly. She needs every knight she can find to go home. Finding one that swore to her mother is...is a sign.

An omen, like the red comet that flew over King's Landing. Ser Arys Oakheart thought it foretold Joffrey's triumph. _How wrong he was._

Here sits a true knight, ready to protect a new queen. As a girl, Sansa always imagined hers was Robb, then Bran. Later, in her flight from King's Landing, the image changed shape until it resembled Dontos Hollard. It changed again in Harroway, expanding on what she envisioned of knights like him to include women like Ellaria Sand and Obara and Nym and Corenna and Gwen, and men like Prince Oberyn, Daemon, Ulwyck, Joss, Tristifer, Qoren, Deziel, Dickon, Cedrik, and Ben. _They **volunteered** to help me_ , Sansa knows, forever grateful for it.

 _Brienne is a true knight, and all she wants to be is yours._ Another volunteer. Another _friend_.

If Stoneheart stands as the bad hand she's been dealt after about a dozen good ones, perhaps Brienne is her luck's newest turning.

Time's up. Softer, she continues. "Let me worry about that," Sansa tells them, accepting Lem's offered hand of help and getting to her feet.

She persuaded Joffrey to spare Dontos once upon a time. She has to do this. She has to find a way to spare Brienne, Hyle, _and_ Podrick.

One way or another.

* * *

 _Dondarrion has made a Shrouded Lady_ , the prince said in place of a greeting, his words so on edge that it idles in her mind's periphery.

"She never sleeps."

In Stoneheart's absence, Sansa and Oberyn convene at the trestle table to disclose their findings and sketch out their next steps. The prince amuses himself by carving grotesques into their afternoon meal of apples, although a furrow to his brow suggests a lingering distraction. 

"It troubles Thoros," the prince admits, sculpting a new face into the apple's skin. "Stoneheart bears little resemblance to his late lord."

Reports of Beric Dondarrion's death wasn't all talk, then—he died and Thoros's god brought him back each time. Silently, Sansa digests this.

"The people..." Sansa scrapes at the skin of an apple with her fingernails, considering. "They're broken." _They just don't know it_ , she realizes. Sansa has the patchwork remains of her brother's people that don't have enough food between them to last a year. They've circled around Lady Stoneheart, the merciless brigand that gives them whatever they want, as she learned today—food, shelter, and reprisal after reprisal on the Freys. And her men that imitate their leadership are remnants themselves—the Brotherhood formed around Lord Beric, who routed all the Lannisters in the Riverlands he could even after Sansa's father and men were killed, picking up stragglers along the way.

"War changes us." Oberyn turns the apple around several times so all four faces are displayed for her. "War changes everything."

She's thought as much of Harwin, Ser Jaime, even herself. Her mother is no exception—the war shaped Catelyn Stark into...something else.

Oberyn places the four-faced apple in her hands, seeming to sense her need for distraction. "Stoneheart would fare quite _poorly_ in Braavos, Your Grace, I assure you," and tells her of the Faceless Men. Another habit develops almost as quickly as her new closeness to the prince; he shares a story to calm her nerves, and she listens. Sansa just appreciates the chance to know him better. On the road to Riverrun and within it, she saw only glimpses and a concession or three; in their proximity among the Brotherhood, she gets longer spans to study him.

" _Their_ god welcomes every face. The Black Goat. The Stranger. The Lion of Night," he finishes. "Their god always the same. Death."

That rings a distant bell. After a moment, Sansa smiles. Arya was _so_ pleased to have that peculiar dancing master. He had a lot to say, but Sansa doubts her father found the best tutor in Braavos if Arya's footwork never really improved. "What do we say to the god of death?"

"Not today," the prince answers, tilting his head. He regards her with that clever smile of his. "You continue to surprise, Your Grace."

Sansa returns the apple, now resting her chin on her hand. "I think you and I are long past courtesies, _my prince_."

He winks. "Just so."

The way he acts would _scandalize_ Septa Mordane, Sansa realizes, just as much as It would bother her to know Sansa finds him so...striking.

Oberyn's good humor fades as he looks over her shoulder and leans back, putting some distance between them. Following his line of sight, Sansa meets the gazes of Tom, Harwin, the dark of Stoneheart's hood, the one eye of Jack-Be-Lucky, Thoros, and Lem Lemoncloak in turn.

"Come, Sansa," Harwin invites, holding a lantern. Shadows dance around him and into the cave. "There's something we want to show you."

 _I want to show you_ , Joffrey had said that day on the battlements. Resentful, afraid, and irritated, Sansa follows as she's bid.

When she and the prince finally join the outlaws outside, Sansa has to give it to Harwin—she _is_ surprised, albeit reluctantly.

"It's a wheelhouse," Sansa offers, after a prolonged silence with no explanation. Oberyn squeezes her hand in warning, but his lips twitch.

"Look closer, Your Grace," Tom suggests. At her quick look, he adds with haste, "if you please."

Aware of Stoneheart's eyes, Sansa approaches the wheelhouse. It's nothing like the gilded metal and oiled oak, double decked carriage of Cersei's when the royal family came to Winterfell, but the craftsmanship is fine. Flowers and vines wrap around every corner, a faded white tower is painted on its rear, and there's enough room in the front to let two horses draw the wheelhouse on (Cersei's, however, had _forty_ ).

 _Don't you remember_? Sansa wants to ask Stoneheart, remembering the great host that entered Winterfell, but resists the temptation.

"It's a wheelhouse from the Reach," says Oberyn, bored and brusque. Sansa detects a layer of suspicion beneath it all. "So what?"

Flowers for the Tyrells, Sansa notes, and the tower for the Hightowers. Oberyn _would_ be so certain—he studied at the Citadel, she knows.

Harwin pats the carriage as if it's a beast of burden. "This is our way into the Twins."

This time, the silence is Sansa's. Not even the snow shrikes cry. When she can summon the words, they're as cold as the Shivering Sea.

"Explain yourself."

Harwin opens the wheelhouse, as if he's a shopkeep with wares to sell. Despite themselves, Sansa and Oberyn lean for a closer look. Stuffed with chests of clothing and musical instruments, the carriage has enough room to fit a few passengers. What's missing is...the passengers.

"We found a troupe on the kingsroad," says Harwin, as Jack-Be-Lucky reaches for a lute. "They're expected at the Twins for Warrior's Day."

"And Maiden's Day," Tom adds, wearing a beatific smile that Sansa mislikes. "Lovely occasions, these holidays."

 _Maiden's Day, already_? Too busy with her maps, Sansa hadn't spared a look at a calendar in ages. There was a whole sennight with a day set aside for each member of the Seven. She and Arya went to Winterfell's sept every year with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel and Septa Mordane (Mother and the boys were never allowed). They'd wear white and light candles at the Maiden's feet and string parchment garlands around their necks and sing every song their septa knew. Just the thought makes her homesick. The look in Tom's eyes, however, makes her wary.

"You mean to dupe the Freys into letting you inside," she says, catching on. Arron and their game comes back to mind. "Another trick."

"We learned it from _you_ , sweetling," Tom retorts, breezily. "Your little trick at Riverrun made us, to use the prince's word... _inspired_."

Guilt slips into her stomach like a thief, and roots deep. Harwin said the lot of them were going to help her instead of _stop_ her—at that moment, getting into Riverrun to see the Blackfish depended on nothing but luck and prayer—which changed the outcome irrevocably and for the better. Without the timely intervention of the Brotherhood Without Banners, Sansa would have a higher chance of becoming the new Sealord of Braavos than getting delivered home in relative happiness and inconsistent safety as she was doing now. Instead of putting an end to Sansa's dream of spring, Harwin only encouraged it, forgoing his own protests thanks to her desire to go simply _home_ , at long last.

She doesn't remember thanking him (or the rest) for it all. The old Sansa would've never forgotten that. This Sansa, the amalgam of what she is and what she's striving so _hard_ to be, the girl worthy of wearing Robb's crown, put it aside in Riverrun and never looked back.

"They aren't well manned," Harwin says, just addressing Stoneheart now. "The garrison isn't more than two hundred between both castles." A tilt of her hood indicates she's listening, so Harwin barrels on, eager and bold as brass. "Lord Walder's not going anywhere"—a hiss comes from Harwin's lady, like some angry demon—"and neither is Lame Lothar. Lothar's going to stay, with the competition gone. It's the perfect opportunity, my lady." _It was Lord Frey and Tywin Lannister_ , Patrek Mallister swore. _A lot of bloody Freys. Lothar. Lame Lothar_.

"Best get the western castle first," says Lem.

"You got another way over the Green Fork?" Jack-Be-Lucky asks between guffaws. Sansa imagines her grandfather's map in her mind, thinking back to all of her planning and strategizing. The Twins feel as foreboding as the Red Keep, as dangerous as Joffrey's court, but—

"This," the prince proclaims, shattering the growing sense of anticipation, "is mad."

He's no longer beside Sansa; instead, he's looking to where they'd come just yesterday, traipsing behind Harwin without any knowledge of what awaited them in the hollow hill. Sansa stares at the tight, angry set of his shoulders, apprehension coming back in one large wave. When he speaks again, Oberyn doesn't bother to look to anyone but her. "You heard me, didn't you? This is _mad_ , Your Grace." The return to courtesy leaves an unease, like they've become strangers all over again—Sansa, the bride-to-be of Tyrion Lannister, and Oberyn, the Dornish guest to the capital with the eye catching, mysterious paramour at his side. "You can't take the Twins with twenty men!"

"We have twenty _seven_ men," Jack snarks, ignoring the resignation on Thoros's face.

"Twenty seven men and two women, m'prince," Tom promises. Sansa holds her tongue, watching warily.

Oberyn's getting angrier. He's shaking. It startles Sansa. After seeing him so...unguarded, the surge of feeling steals her attention. He seems to steal every bit of light and warmth around them, from the heat in his voice to the flush of emotion coloring his features.

"Have any of you been inside the Twins? Has anyone seen their defenses? Their arms? You have no _idea_ what you're doing."

Stoneheart touches her throat, rasping a reproach.

"Our lady has," Harwin answers, coolly. "She remembers everything, Prince Oberyn."

 _He won't hear Oberyn_ , Sansa realizes. _Shall I_?

Oberyn looks from every man to Sansa and Stoneheart and back again, searching for...searching for an ally, she decides, unable to meet his gaze a second time. She can't find it in her to be that person. It _is_ a mad idea, probably the worst idea she's entertained since the Tyrells floated the fantasy of Sansa marrying Willas and escaping Joffrey's court to become the Lady of Highgarden. It's the culmination of every fear she's had since she came to the Red Keep. Being thought stupid, being as foolish as everyone thinks she is, being so unpleasantly vulnerable, being alone in the world again. She's earned every bit of power she's gained since setting foot in the Quiet Isle, all those leagues away from King's Landing and getting further every day. She's set to lose everything—and her life—if she goes into the Twins.

There's another unpleasant silence. Sansa passes it with her gaze on Stoneheart, watching the glimmer of her red eyes.

"Sansa," the prince asks with careful courtesy, "a word?"

* * *

"You can't be serious. You _can't_!"

Sansa isn't sure, one way or another. She can't string more a few words together, even for her own peace of mind. Everything she's feeling surges up and _fast_ and only a little controlled, while Sansa is a single reed in the Trident, getting pushed flat under the strength and strain of the current.

 _They need me_ , she wants to say. "What would you have me do?" Sansa asks instead, meeker than wants to appear now.

Oberyn's features resemble Ellaria's in the Quiet Isle now, in their night away from the men of the column—an uneven mix of anger and real, genuine surprise. He can't seem to stand still in front of her, either; his boots carve a steady path in the snow; his hands shiver as the fingers curl into fists; his chest draws in sharp breaths, only to force them back out in a gust.

"You can go back to Seagard! _We_ can go back to Seagard. The siege was broken, Sansa," Oberyn tells her, thrusting an arm in the direction of the hollow hill, where Stoneheart and the outlaws went after Oberyn requested an audience. "Thoros saw it in his fires. Your men _won_."

When she's mustering the ability to speak, torn between reveling and considering, Oberyn is turning away from her.

"Have you considered..." He stops, starts again, Sansa hanging on to every word for dear life, like they will bodily drag her out of the undertow. They don't, to her dismay. Instead, there's water in her mouth and eyes, more than enough to drown in. "Have you considered...what you're asking of me?"

"No," Sansa admits, faintly. She _hasn't_.

"I have eight girls, Sansa. I have to think of them. I have Ellaria. I have my brother, Arianne, _Dorne_..."

Sansa's wringing her hands before she's aware of it, feels the sting of her nails digging into the flesh of her palms before the act itself registers in her thoughts. _The Sand Snakes_. Sansa's hardly thought of the fallout of the risk Oberyn volunteered for—only the man, and the woman at his side for so long, unmarried but permanently committed besides. She's swept up in the action, not the consequences or the effect on his children. _His children_ , she thinks, wildly, guiltily. The first four are women grown, but the other four aren't. At least two of them are as young as Bran and Rickon were, and maybe as naive as Sansa once was, the way she wished she still could live. They don't _know_ what it's like to...to lose a father. A mother. Everyone. And Ellaria—what will it do to _her_ to lose Oberyn?

"You can't leave them," says Sansa, hating how thready her voice sounds, how it breaks over the prince's name. "They...they need you, Oberyn." Like she needs her own father, even if she's found means to limp on without him, without her mother or her sister or her brothers.

Oberyn's looking at her again, anger washing away like a retreating tide. He leans against the wheelhouse for support, looking powerless.

"You don't have to do this, Sansa."

She studies her whitening knuckles, searching for answers. "Yes, I do." Marq Piper's captive at the Twins. The Greatjon and his son. Kirth Vance. Loyal men, all Robb's. "I can't leave anyone behind." She can't even conjure the image anymore—marching to Moat Cailin, surrounded by familiar faces. What would she _say_ to the remaining Umbers, Pipers, and Vances if she left the rest in Walder Frey's custody?

Oberyn pushes off from the wheelhouse and approaches, taking her fidgeting hands in his own and holding fast, until she has no choice but to look at him. She doesn't fight him, doesn't _want_ to. "You aren't your brother, Sansa. Had the Starks lived in Dorne, things would be different. _You_ would be different. You'd know what to do with a sword, or use other means to defend yourself," he adds, when she makes to protest. "I want you to get the justice and vengeance your family deserves, truly. But..." He lets her go, gently. "Is it worth _this_?"

"You fought the Mountain," Sansa reminds him, unable to put as much steel into her voice as she wants to. "I can't fight the Freys?"

"I fought _one_ man with a poisoned spear," Oberyn persists, regaining his composure. His conviction is stronger than hers. "He was going to die whether _I_ survived or not. Don't play a game you cannot win, Doran tells me, so I didn't. What you're suggesting is going into _two_ unsecured, well defended castles with twenty seven undisciplined outlaws without half a whit between them to care if _you_ survive or not. Don't you see, Sansa? They've been above the law for too long. It's gone to their heads. They think themselves invincible."

Sansa tries not let her agreement and apprehension show on her face. He sees them anyway, just like his paramour would.

"Why do you have to join them? You're their queen, not some common soldier. You have no training, you said so yourself."

Sansa gestures to the wheelhouse. "I'm part of the trick," she suggests, understanding Tom's meaning now. "I'm...I'm to sing." Like Tristifer Toland and Qoren, she remembers, thinking of the former with a pang. By now she prays his honor escort is at least nearing the Boneway, so he can rest in Ghost Hill in a few weeks. "My mind is my sword," she says, reminding Oberyn of his words in Harroway. " _You_ said so."

Oberyn gives a shake of his head, like he isn't hearing her right.

"They need me," she says, aloud this time. Under the moonlight in his plain, sparrow surcoat and undecorated clothing, Oberyn looks like any other man. No hint of his greatness shows. _But_ , she thinks, feeling as hollow as the hill behind them, as if the Brotherhood took her worries and every fleck of emotion with them. _He's the Prince of Dorne._ He has a family; she doesn't, not anymore. "They don't need **you**."

_My heart isn't very gentle._

_No longer, I take it?_

_No_.

She never wanted him to lie to her, but Sansa never once promised the same. She can't draw back the quarrels and the knives against Robb and her mother, but she _can_...shut Oberyn out. She can harden her heart, and send him away—she's a queen now, not a mere lady. She has a stone and steel core, now, even if it feels like it can become...lonely. _He's better off_ , she decides, thinking back to all of their adventures thus far. That's all it can be to Oberyn and the column, if she pushes him far enough away. His adventure, her future. The North's future.

She can barely see the prince as clearly as Ellaria presumably saw her at court, but she hears his intake of breath, loud and clear—clear as her courtesies he heard when she was still a little dove, still a girl without a crown, without people to think about or twin castles to deceive.

 _They don't need you_ , she said, but Oberyn hears what she meant him to hear, even if it's a lie. _**I** don't need you_.

"They don't," he ventures, very slowly, like he's drawing the words out of muck and despair. "They seem to...have a handle on things."

There's no surfacing from this current; Sansa obligingly bends to its weight. Wolves in wait remain patient for other opportunities.

She finds the steel to harden her voice. "So this is goodbye," she offers, feigning an coolness she doesn't feel, especially not for Oberyn. It's...easier, she realizes, to imitate someone else instead of herself. _Like those ladies at court_ , Ellaria teased. Or _something_ else, like the Wall. _I'll be Wall_ , Sansa decides, standing up straighter. The Wall's stood for eight thousand years, as long as House Stark in the heart of the North, softening and buckling all the while against the strong, youthful sun. Sansa can be the Wall—it weeps but stands strong, always.

Even if the sun leaves it to the mercy of the Long Night.

 _My lady of ice and snow_ , Ellaria pleaded in the Quiet Isle. She isn't here to draw Sansa back to her senses again.

The prince's bow is a solemn thing, showing no glimpse of that mummer in Pentos, or the man with a riveting story for a circle of friends, or the playful prince in the godswood bower in Riverrun. They part in peace, even if her every step is closer to wading, drowning, dying.

"So it is," she hears him say, before the darkness swallows them both.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little longer than usual. Hope it's enjoyed!

Long after she's rejoined the Brotherhood in the hollow hill, Sansa's thoughts remain on the prince.

_I have eight girls, Sansa, I have to think of them..._

_This is mad, Your Grace..._

The worst part of it all is how well Sansa understands him now. He lost about as much family to the last war as Sansa did—Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, Prince Lewyn on the Trident and thousands of courageous Dornishmen with him—and couldn't bring himself to throw the rest into jeopardy if he never came out of the Twins alive. This errand can't be given to a man with so much on the line; Oberyn implied all of Dorne relied on him. _Like the North will rely on me, like they believed so strongly in Robb_ , Sansa reflects, struggling to compose herself. Her vengeance wasn't his to finish. _I just wanted to go home_ , Sansa thinks, miserable and cold and alone. _How did any of this happen_?

She gives herself a minute—a long minute—to calm down. _We Starks endure._ It isn't as comforting as it used to be.

Harwin's sketching out a map of the Twins just as she comes back, translating the near incomprehensible words of Stoneheart.

"...get the Water Tower _before_ the eastern castle," Harwin agrees, circling the column with a finger. "We need to watch our backs."

"Better watch our fronts, m'lady," Lem argues, looming over the illustration. "The lion's share of the garrison'll be with Old Walder."

 _A host of my men would solve this problem_ , Sansa won't say, with Lem's sourness clinging to her thoughts.

As bickering between Harwin and Lem ensues, Sansa finds a place next to Thoros. He smiles in greeting, smelling of ash and salt.

"Where's that husband of yours?" He questions, voice soft.

 _Husband_? Sansa blinks, puzzled, until the suggestion lands. "Oberyn?" She asks in surprise, face warming up. "Prince Oberyn?"

Thoros now looks puzzled himself. It puts a crease between his thin white brows. "I assumed..."

 _Courting, perhaps_ , Sansa won't admit. _No matter. I won't be seeing him again_. The thought lowers her spirits further.

"We weren't wed," she explains, hastily, and rushes to elaborate, hastier still. "He only wanted...he was bringing me back to Winterfell."

 _Was_. Thoros does not seem to miss it, but he has the grace not to say so. "Forgive me for the soot, Your Grace," the priest remarks, producing a handkerchief that matches the stolen troupe's clothes and personal effects. "Small wonder your eyes are...watering," Thoros adds, giving Sansa a knowing look. She can see her father in that look, although the gruffness resembles Sers Ulwyck and Brynden, too.

Sansa always was a lady before a Grace—she hasn't forgotten her courtesies. "Thank you, Thoros," she says when she can, solemnly.

Thoros has a small smile for her. "A small token of my appreciation. You brighten the road ahead of us."

"In your fires?" She has no love for his red god, although the flames draw her curiosity, as if she were a moth and not a girl.

Thoros nods, as the conversation goes on and on without them. "Our road, and the kingsroad. I see you," he says, and in the hesitation Sansa is reminded painfully of Ellaria Sand. _I saw your sadness. All I wanted to do was send it away, and make you smile._ Thoros soon regains her attention, however. "You and a host. The serpents are all around you. Snakes and lizard lions and flowers and a sea of krakens."

"Krakens?" Sansa repeats, taking his wrist in sudden, chilly fear. Of that, she is never in short supply. "Ironborn?"

"Peace, Your Grace," Thoros assures her. "They won't hurt you. They're sleeping now, for good." He studies Sansa. "Do I frighten you, child?"

"No," she admits, as her gaze finds Stoneheart, drawing an answer to her lips, "but she does."

"Aye," the priest concedes, grim. "Our lady is..." A shadow? An abomination? A poor replacement for a woman Sansa loved so dearly?

"Indescribable," Sansa suggests, knowingly. Nothing else seems to encompass the events of the past several years, going from bad to worse—Joffrey's madness, her father's untimely end, the outbreak of war in every direction, and the heaps of ill luck to everyone in the realm.

"Indescribable," Thoros of Myr agrees, almost amused. "Quite."

* * *

Little headway is made even as the talks draw into the early morning, putting a bleariness to Sansa's eyes and a tired air to the group. Immune to exhaustion, as Oberyn warned, Stoneheart doesn't adjourn until the snow shrikes cry, welcoming the hour of the nightingale.

The smallfolk are breaking their fast in the bigger cavern, but Sansa ignores her own hunger and desire to wash up and follows Harwin, who's escorting Stoneheart to a horse just outside. Lem Lemoncloak, her sour shadow, waits beyond the border of the copse, reins in hand.

"Will you join us, Sansa?" Harwin asks, after Stoneheart settles.

Sansa only nods, letting Harwin meander off to fetch her a mount. "Where does she want to go?" Sansa asks Lem.

He frowns, more thoughtful than cross.

"Oldstones, Your Grace. Makes m'lady happy."

Throat tight, Sansa recalls a day where Hullen and Harwin lifted Lady Catelyn onto a filly from the Rills that her mother named Jenny. Lord and Lady Stark were riding out to the moors for the day, stealing some time to be together. When Sansa wondered why Lady Catelyn had chosen that name of all names, her mother smiled, and taught Sansa the song. _Jenny of Oldstones, with flowers in her hair_...

"Truly?" Sansa questions, placing her boot into Harwin's fingers to climb into the saddle. She wants to hear them say it with enough conviction for her to believe it. The court swallowed her lies with simpers and smiles—Sansa hungers for the truth, now and always. "Is she...happy?"

Lem purses his lips. Harwin shifts his weight, unable to answer. Stoneheart breaks the spell with a word, the sound crackling like sparks.

 _Indescribable_ , Sansa thinks, watching and waiting.

"M'lady," Harwin answers, apologetic, and then they're off.

Oldstones isn't far from Seagard, Sansa remembers, thinking of her grandfather's map. She disregarded the Blue Fork in all of her planning with Sers Daemon and Ulwyck and Ellaria aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_ —at the time, it was simply too far from where they ended up (and the Green Fork farther still). Now, it's before her, rushing ever forward in one beautiful, blue course. These waters resemble the joy in her mother's eyes, clear and bright as the sparkling of sunlight through glass. _To think_ , Sansa muses, as Harwin and Lem walk alongside Sansa and Stoneheart, _had the column found enough lumber, we could've rowed **up** the Trident, and found the Brotherhood by other means._

Sansa barely notices the slow, winding ascent up the hill; her thoughts linger on the column. _Her_ column. What's become of them in her absence? And her river lords? Nerves drag behind her, drawing her spine into a tight curve. She wants them around—the Dornishmen who proved themselves so bravely for her, again and again. So _sweetly_. Gwen's earnest voice; Joss Hood's fervent stylings. Deziel Dalt's playful demeanor returns to mind, pursued by Maester Cedrik's amiable airs. Obara and the Lady Nym, masters of their own makings. Qoren's dear singing, Jeyne Westerling's quiet determination, little Rollam's growing courage, Brynden Tully's unwavering loyalty...if Sansa hadn't missed Winterfell so dearly, she would never know the ache that comes from not seeing all of her people. Her friends, if queens are allowed any.

Her family. A new iteration, but nevertheless a family, and entirely Sansa's. Worry finds its familiar place in her chest, curling in between her lungs. They're still waiting for her at Seagard, aren't they? Sansa's the one holding the alliance together, and now she's—she's hiding away.

Just three days ago, they were well on the way to Winterfell, just as she wanted when Ser Daemon Sand's skiff started rowing into the great unknown of Blackwater Bay. _What happened_? Sansa thinks for the second time, frustration warring with a now familiar sense of discomfort. Managing fear isn't the only thing she does in excess, it seems. Sansa continues to...miss. Misses them all, misses chances, misses opportunities, misses...well...Ellaria. _Oberyn_. Is there ever one without the other, even in the privacy of her mind? Sansa isn't sure. Not yet.

"What's that?" Sansa asks after they reach the summit of Oldstones, navigating a careful path through ruins and lichen covered rocks.

Lady Stoneheart, already on her feet, has stopped at a frosted sepulcher.

"Some river king's seat," Harwin answers, helping Sansa down. "Mud?"

"Mudd," Lem corrects with a grunt. "Tristifer Mudd." At Sansa's look, Lem shrugs, almost sheepish. "Tom says so."

Sansa joins Stoneheart and runs her fingers along the likeness of Tristifer. There's a crown at the temples and a warhammer over the chest, and even a beard on Tristifer's jaw, but the face—eyes, nose, mouth—has all but washed away. _M'lady weathered a bad storm_ , Long Jeyne Heddle said when Sansa was searching for information. Sansa watches Stoneheart study the dead king, eyes glimmering a deep scarlet.

"It's not like our crypts," Sansa remarks, cautiously. "In Winterfell." Stoneheart stills, tilts her hood. _I have her. She's listening_. "Remember? There's Brandon, and Lyanna..." Sansa trails off, waiting for a sign of recognition. Lady Catelyn rarely ventured into the crypts, but Sansa can recall more than one night where her mother interrupted a game of monsters-and-maidens to beckon her children to supper after the servants could not. The statues unnerved even her mother, but they never _stopped_ her. "And the Lords of Winterfell—Donnor, Beron, Rodwell? Jorah and Jonos?" She presses, ignoring the snowflakes collecting in her hair and crown, in the men's beards, on Stoneheart's oversized cloak. This opportunity's been out of her reach for days; Sansa can't afford to waste a moment with Stoneheart. She has to _know_.

"And the sept?" Sansa asks, holding that red gaze, even as her voice begins to sound desperate, like it belongs to someone else. "You and I went every day to pray. None of the boys would stay, and especially not Arya." Harwin and Lem and Stoneheart stare at her. Sansa's eyes are burning like braziers. "Then we'd go to the Great Hall for breakfast. Right, Harwin? You always dined with us, and Old Nan, and Mikken..."

 _Why isn't it working_?

"Turnip and Gage could make anything taste good," Harwin reminisces, wearing a tiny, sad smile.

"Even Old Nan's kidney pies," she suggests, wistful. She wanted for nothing in Winterfell—family, friends, food nor shelter, not even safety.

And not her mother. The gods are just, but not kind.

"You'd brush my hair at night," says Sansa, reaching for Stoneheart's skeletal fingers. In life, they tweaked ears, made plaits, commanded a staff, and showed Sansa just how to sew. In death, they look like the remnants of crow's feasts, attached to a decaying, dishonored body.

 _Sansa_ , Stoneheart rasped on the first day and stared and stared, looking for a clue in Sansa's face. "Do you remember me?" Sansa persists, reckless. Daring as Harwin, bold as Ellaria. Brave as...herself. _I need to know if she's coming with me_. If it was truly Lady Catelyn, or not.

"Well enough," Lem mutters as Stoneheart breaks the spell between them, and steps away from the sepulcher. The dead gaze never rests on Sansa again, to her mingled disappointment and relief. _That's **not** my mother_ , Sansa thinks with a rolling in her stomach. Her thoughts feel as unmoored as she is, weightless, dangerously scattered, and out of order. Stoneheart slept for three days, Harwin said, making excuses for his lady's behavior (blind, he was, Sansa understands, blind and grieving). Was she remembering Robb in that crown, or Sansa that Harwin happened to stumble on near Riverrun, in the company of strangers? Harwin's slip of the tongue in Hoster Tully's solar, that her mother _is_ proud of Sansa. It was his own, not Stoneheart's. R'hllor hasn't brought back anything, Sansa realizes with a new burden on her shoulders, watching two ghosts descend the hill—Lem in the Hound's skin and Stoneheart in her mother's—and everyone knows it.

All except Harwin. Sansa pities him.

"Not enough," Harwin admits. He sounds like creaking wood, weakened and about to collapse under a great weight. "Not nearly...enough."

Sansa smooths a layer of snow away from the face of Tristifer Mudd. "You lied to me."

Harwin sits—or his knees give way—next to her on the ground. "I didn't want to see it."

Sansa glances down at him, feeling so much older, suddenly. Older than Harwin himself. "Now you know," she says, heavily. _Oberyn was right._ It's just more bad tidings, like always. Sansa weathers storms of her own and stands her ground (like Tristifer Mudd, with inessential pieces eroding away each time). She only wishes he was here to gloat about it. Setting her feelings aside—until she can properly grieve in Winterfell—Sansa puts a hand on Harwin's shoulder, until he looks at her again. "Will you swear to _me_ , Harwin? There aren't any Starks left." _You **owe** me this_ , she wants to say, wants to snarl. Without Harwin's intercession, she would be with her column in Seagard, oblivious to the _thing_ that was once her mother. Stoneheart is like this Tristifer Mudd; an impression, a memory, but nothing inside. An empty shell.

Harwin's smiling a bit wistfully as he goes to one knee, like he's seeing all the people she's lost as often as she does. Sansa brushes some of the snow from her face, feeling more than ever that they're back in Winterfell, playing a game. Harwin was so much older than Sansa and her siblings—Robb and Jon and Arya competed to impress him—but he was a fixture of home, an immovable piece of the castle's foundation. He was her father's man, then the Brotherhood's, and now hers.

There's no going back, Sansa realizes, welcoming the new strength that gives her. _Only forward._ It's a good kind of weightlessness.

"I need a favor from you, Harwin," she says after they've sworn oaths to one another. With him, she has a new, influential voice in the Brotherhood. A way to make change even if it's coming from a stranger. _That was the problem_ , Sansa understands much too late. It isn't like the column. They hardly know her—Sansa was an interloper to Harwin's men despite her attempts to insinuate herself, albeit with connections to its leadership and goals. If she can turn Harwin from Stoneheart, she can bring others to her side, ones who need her help.

_Stoneheart means to hang us, Your Grace._

_Let me worry about that._

"Anything," Harwin promises.

* * *

It's past midday when Sansa and Harwin return from Oldstones. Nursing a headache that only a much needed meal can cure, Sansa doesn't notice the man waiting for them until Harwin clears his throat, sidling Sansa with a lingering, meaningful look until it— _he_ —registers.

"Oberyn," she breathes, missing Harwin ducking into the hill to give them privacy. "You're—" She isn't sure if she's seeing him. Is he _really_ standing before her, or is the jumbled mixture of nerves and hunger and constant fear making her mind fray at the edges? "You're here."

A Dornish prince kneels in the snow before her. He lifts only his eyes to Sansa, like she's an altar in a sept that awaits supplication. "I am."

She wonders if she's wished him to her, perhaps conjured him into existence like that Harrenhal witch, or if this is yet another divine boon.

Tentatively, she reaches to smooth over the creases in his brow with her fingers, trying in vain to rid Oberyn of his despairing look. "Why?"

"Amongst other things...I want to ask for your forgiveness."

" _Why_?"

He looks just as incredulous as she is, although shame punctures it, too, like a knife through cloth. "I broke my word to you, Sansa. I _left_."

She tries to draw him to his feet, but his hands wind gently around her forearms, stilling her. "You came back," she protests. "It doesn't—"

"It does. It matters."

No man's ever looked so much at her mercy, like his life hangs in the balance of her shifting moods—not the drunkard Dontos in the godswood of the Red Keep, not the injured Lancel in the Maegor's Holdfast during the Blackwater, not the weeping Hound in her bedchamber on the same night, not the chained Jaime in the dungeons of Riverrun, and not the repentant Harwin in the ruins of a king's seat. _Font of mercy_ , she remembers singing to the Hound, trying to gentle his rage. It's discomforting when worn on a man she trusts. "I forgive you," she tells Oberyn, smiling in a heady rush of relief when the furrow to his brow vanishes under the touch of her hands. "Arise, please," she adds, wrapping her arms around him as soon as he obeys.

"I got cold feet," the prince murmurs by way of explanation. The words sink into her hair, just as his arms settle around her waist.

Sansa stifles a laugh into his collarbone, barreling forward into these new intimacies with only a little abandon. Any faster and she will stumble, though Oberyn seems poised to catch her. "It only rarely snows in Dorne," she reminds him, softly. "You weren't...expecting it."

 _You were afraid_ , she isn't saying.

He seems to hear it anyway (as always, Sansa observes, adding to her study of him), and hums a noise of disagreement. "I should have."

 _In hindsight_ , Sansa doesn't insist. His eyes find hers, still bearing a weight of shame.

"I couldn't leave," he tells her, words pitched so low that Sansa thinks the wind will carry them off. "I think winter came for me," the prince suggests, sounding so strangely ill at ease that Sansa draws back to look at him. There's no Ellaria to rescue him like she rescued Sansa in the Quiet Isle—Oberyn had to do it himself. "I _froze_. I couldn't see myself _leaving_ and sleeping through another night. If I had managed to find my way back to Seagard without you, what would Ellaria say? And your bannermen?" He looks torn between incredulity and disgust. Sansa doesn't need to ask to know it's directed inward, making camp between his fears and devotion to this mission. No stranger to doubt, she smooths down a thread on his tunic, listening. "What would my daughters say? Doran? So...I came back to you," Oberyn finishes, sounding rueful. "Leaving is a half measure. I cannot choose a coward's flight any more than I can _lie_ to you again, or choose sides when it comes to love." Rabbit quick, he reaches for her hands. "I swore to bring you all the way to Winterfell, not to some hollow hill very much _unsuited_ for a queen. Will you allow me?" He asks, more formal than she's heard from him. _He's nervous_ , she understands, abruptly.

"You wouldn't be the first one to be afraid," she allows in lieu of a proper answer, wry. Oberyn will simply _know_ it. 

He laughs, showing his teeth in a grin.

"Now you and I can march _bravely_ into the Twins." He heard that from Ellaria, Sansa realizes, wishing she was with them.

"You know why _I_ have to go, don't you?" Sansa asks, sobering. Her father's words draw the memories back to her, filling in the holes left by her disappointment and terror within the confines of King's Landing. "The North is..." _Savage_ , she has heard before, misliking that. _Traditional, different, suspicious_. Joffrey's southron court looked down on them long before Robb was crowned king. Sansa knows better. "Unique," she decides, thoughtfully, wistfully. "They follow the man. In the absence of one, they need to follow me." Bear Island and House Mormont got along well enough, she knows. Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton managed just fine, too. "They'll never follow me happily if I never seek my rightful vengeance. We have long memories, as I told you in Riverrun." Even so, the thought of taking vengeance fills her with dread and a familiar coiling of anxiety. A sword in Sansa's hands feels just as ridiculous as putting a fool like Moon Boy on the Iron Throne.

"They'd follow the Stark name," Oberyn disagrees, gently. "It's your _birthright_ , Sansa." In Dorne, she knows. The North is another beast.

It's less of a rebuke and more like the last rattle of a failing pair of lungs. _I have him_.

"They will," she admits, thinking of Harwin's loyalty, "but will they respect me? Obey me?" _There's no going back. Only forward_.

"Gods be good," Oberyn quips, with some of the charisma Sansa has grown to l—appreciate. He relents. "They will never see you coming."

If Sansa's smile is more wolfish and less ladylike than usual, her prince is far too amused to say so.

* * *

Harwin's brothers don't bat an eye at Oberyn's return, Sansa notices, although they seem to disapprove of his tactics without a hint of doubt.

"No, no, no," Oberyn protests over Jack-Be-Lucky's grumbles. "Alert the women early and our cause is lost. The rookery must come first."

Jack wants to immediately detain the servants, Sansa learns, considering for a moment. She finds herself siding with the prince.

"Not yet," Sansa says, louder. They don't quite understand—none of them are highborn. "An unattended feast attracts attention."

"They'll make a fuss," Dennett points out, favoring caution. He guards his tongue around her now. "I don't want no weasel soup on me."

 _Weasel soup_? Sansa's curious. There's a layer to the air. _A secret_. Tom jabs an elbow into Dennett's ribs.

"We are a small force," the prince insists, looking so suddenly lordly it draws the eyes of every man at the trestle table. "We must work together. I was a Second Son in the Disputed Lands for over a year. A line that breaks is doomed, no matter how daring that first charge is."

Harwin's agreement is plain. Like boulders in an avalanche, the others fall in line, albeit grudgingly. Lady Stoneheart gives nothing away.

The talks stop for supper, only this time with more headway and a date set for the attack on the Twins—the very next day. Over stew and hard bread, Sansa finds a place with the captives, trying to cajole them. "You won't hang," she admits. "But...you'll need to come with us."

Brienne is amenable, if worried. Pod stutters so much Sansa can't figure out what he's feeling. Hyle Hunt objects.

"Into the Twins?" The knight demands. "We'll be butchered!"

"You can die by the rope or the sword," Sansa snaps back, forgetting herself. She softens her voice once the echo of her words begins to sound like a pair of someones she hated— _Joffrey_ , and Cersei. Appetite vanishing on the spot, she passes her bowl to Brienne and her bread to Podrick, reining her temper back into where it belongs. "Stoneheart won't let you go, ser. I've _tried_."

Even Harwin made his appeals. Nothing swayed the shadow, not even her once staunchest supporter.

"Get me a horse, and she'll see how fast I can go."

"Ser," Brienne pipes up, interrupting Sansa's retort, "are you a knight or not? You never balked at a challenge before."

Hyle Hunt drops his querulous expression, to Sansa's relief. "I'm not dressing up like some mummer, Your Grace," he concedes at last, flatly.

"Worry not," Sansa tells them, rising to her feet with Brienne's help. "I have something else in mind for you."

She gives the prince an update, flushed with pride.

"Deftly done," Oberyn remarks, huddled near a torch in an attempt to soften the hard cheese that was given out earlier with the pieces of old bread. He cuts a piece for her with a dagger. "I wondered if Ser Hyle would enter the Twins in a dress. It would distract all from that scar."

Sansa hides a smile. "And you?"

Oberyn sketches a bow, eyes glittering with mirth. "In Pentos, perhaps. Or Planky Town."

They find seats in the smaller cavern, trying to whittle away the hours before daylight. Shoulder to shoulder, they watch the smallfolk of the Brotherhood prepares themselves. Many of the men will join them, some with wives and children, most without. Tom of Sevenstreams tunes his harp, fast and sure. Harwin sharpens a shortsword, listening to Mudge's complaints about their supper with a good natured smile. Notch and Likely Luke play at dice, bartering for a pool of a few copper stars. The Heddles and a strangely familiar smith share a fire with Thoros. Mothers watch their children at play, careworn and amused.

None of them look as nervous as Sansa feels, yet they're committed all the same to her cause if not her. _Are we ready_?

"We need to improve our disguises," says Oberyn, just as Sansa's nodding off. At her look, he elaborates. "You sound highborn, Sansa."

She's never heard of such a thing being _wrong_. "How?"

"Imagine," the prince suggests, putting some distance between them, "that I am that old, ugly, and disgusting Lord Frey."

Sansa could sooner swim to Braavos, though she complies. Oberyn adopts a sullen look, bearing a distant resemblance to Edwyn Frey.

"Attend me."

It's a strange request. "Yes, my lord," she answers, feeling stupid. He gives a shake of his head. _Incorrect_.

" _M'lord_ ," Oberyn advises. "It's a single word to a servant. They do not have the benefits of a maester's teaching, as we did."

"M'lord," Sansa repeats, experimentally. Winterfell and the Red Keep had no shortage of servants. She's heard plenty. "Yes, m'lord."

"Good...now," the prince continues, "our wheelhouse is from the Reach, is it not? Our accents must reflect that, no matter how well traveled our troupe is." He clears his throat, lowers his eyes, and speaks again. This time, he has no Dornish drawl and superb, confident manner of speech. Faintly, Sansa hears the curl that hung on the words of Margaery and her cousins and her grandmother. "Another song, m'lord?"

Sansa can't help the incredulous laugh that escapes her mouth. "Oberyn!"

He grins, more like himself again. "You see? It's easy."

She tries again, thinking of Harwin's manners, then the Hound's. Sansa tries on the blank look she wore in court. "Another song...m'lord?"

The prince's lips twitch. "I have an ear for accents. Again." While she practices, Oberyn listens, until approval appears on his features.

"Better."

It's harder than it seems. "At least I _know_ I can sing." _And play the high harp and the bells. Tom should know_.

That piques his interest. "We'll sing a duet, then, while these brothers in arms do your bidding."

"Not _my_ bidding," she disagrees, archly. She'll play willowy and witty, like Elinor Tyrell. Like Margaery. "The singer's."

"And who is this singer?"

Sansa thinks on that for a moment. This was a trick, she was going to sing, and they supposedly hailed from the Reach. _They will never see you coming_. Neither did the Lannisters after Sansa vanished from the capital aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_. She can hide her accent only slightly, as if she was a girl who learned from a maester. A noted bastard, maybe, she decides, warming to the idea. Like Jon. "Florys. Florys Flowers."

A cousin or sister to Sers Horas and Hobber, perhaps. With hair like hers, Redwynes and Tullys can easily pass for one another.

"Florys the Fox." Wicked approval shines in his eyes as he curls her long braid around his finger. "Not even the Seven will save them."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, a year has flown by fast. I apologize for the lack of an update. School has kicked my butt. I _will_ finish this story, though!
> 
> This chapter is twice as long than usual, as I tried to make up for my absence and compensate for the fact that I lost an earlier draft in the past six months (I forgot it was sitting in my AO3) and was _so_ upset about it! It was a mixed blessing, however, since I couldn't quite get the writing to click until a little while ago when I started working on other stories.
> 
> Anyway, this is the first part of the attack on the Twins. I nearly combined it all into one gigantic 'episode' but it felt _way_ too cluttered. Hopefully, you'll like the next part of Sansa's adventures. Thanks for reading!

Mornings in King's Landing, Sansa recalls, were the smallest mercies of her dreariest days.

She was allowed nearly an hour to dress, where she painstakingly repaired and donned her lady's armor. As the sun rose higher and higher, Sansa steeled herself for all the fear and hurts that were to come over the rest of the day. Cersei's maids (and later, Shae) styled her hair, selected the jewelry she was to wear, and then brought her breakfast. When the sanctity of her rooms was so rarely disturbed after the Blackwater, Sansa began to crave the refuge of her own chambers almost as much as the guaranteed privacy in the godswood of the Red Keep. For all her terrors waiting within the walls of the castle, and outside it, like in the depths of Flea Bottom, her chambers were a safe place, if rather stifling. Warm when the air was cool, cold as much as possible while the city blistered, and filled to the brim with her possessions. Hairbrushes, shawls, dresses, gowns, shoes, the doll from Father she once scorned—Sansa wanted for nothing, if she did not count the rising losses of her family, allies, and freedom.

Sansa couldn't _help_ but count them.

This morning can not be more different than her mornings in the Keep, she knows. Sansa wakes next to Oberyn, cheek pressed firmly against his collarbone. There's no maid to style her hair, as Gwen remains with Ellaria, less than a day from Seagard (or already ensconced in the town by now). Sansa's dress needs a wash. Sansa herself needs to bathe (it's the Blue Fork for her, not a copper tub with scented oils and fresh soap). The jewelry in the troupe's wheelhouse isn't hers; it belongs to a singer she's yet to meet (likely in some inn belonging to the Brotherhood). Her breakfast, due to the swing of the season and subsequently dwindling supplies, will be a paltry one (but hopefully filling, as she won't eat again for a day or more afterward). The hours ahead are _dangerous_ , not dreary; the day of reckoning has come. It's the day that she, Oberyn, and the Brotherhood will storm the Twins. There's no Kingsguard to escort her anywhere, either—instead, she has Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, and Ser Hyle Hunt.

And she has Oberyn, the most noble prince Sansa has ever met.

So much has changed, Sansa observes, thinking of the crown and path to justice and vengeance that she has put on alongside her lady's armor.

She shuts her eyes again, not quite ready to muster herself into movement—and all stresses of statecraft therein—yet. Waking up with Oberyn isn't like the days on the road with the column. When her Dornish party was whole and nowhere near the Twins, Sansa slept next to Ellaria, often soothed from nightmares by the intertwining of Ellaria's fingers with hers. Ellaria slept deeply and rose late, so Sansa always awoke to the peaceful, slumbering features of the woman who liked playing Sansa's knight. Unlike Arya, Beth Cassel, or Jeyne Poole, Ellaria actually _snored_ , to Sansa's amusement. When Oberyn joined them in Harroway after his triumph over the Mountain, mornings before and following the getting to Riverrun introduced Sansa to the sight of Oberyn's arm draped over Ellaria's waist, preceding a glimpse of his broad frame angled behind Ellaria, an arrangement Sansa guesses was settled in all their years together as lovers. He always found the snoring funny, too, and usually shot her a grin riddled with mischief, the sight besting the ingress of the actual sun, as dawn finally broke above the three of them, letting the day officially begin.

Among the Brotherhood and far removed from her army, Sansa's slept against Oberyn's chest, the worries over Stoneheart and the Freys making propriety fall by the wayside. It's quite another thing to sleep next to the prince. He's bigger than Ellaria. He's all muscle instead of spindly like Arya, all brawn instead of Jeyne Poole or Gwen's small frames. His arms encase Sansa securely, barring no mind to the awkward sprawl the two of them must bear in the hollow hill, seeking all warmth from Thoros's fires and from each other that they can get. In contrast to Ellaria's silklike skin, Oberyn's beard bristles, catching Sansa's cheek like nettles in the woods. It isn't _unpleasant_ , Sansa recalls, remembering the heady shiver such closeness gave her. It's the trust in Oberyn that makes her feel so...safe, even in the midst of dubious outlaws, smallfolk, and Stoneheart.

Oberyn's toying with her hair draws Sansa from her reverie.

"Awake, my love?" The prince asks, the sound of his voice distracting her from the thud of his heartbeat under her ear. Sansa starts, nerves abruptly atingle—she's only heard him refer to Ellaria as such, and vice versa. They're playing husband and wife for the Freys later, she remembers; it only makes sense for him to say so, Sansa tells herself, struck by some strange disappointment at the reminder. Oberyn's been a playful, courtly friend of true nobility, nothing more. _Nothing_? A voice in her mind questions, thinking Oberyn's dedication to help her get home, and Ellaria's kisses.

Sansa can't find it in her to dwell on the impropriety of their sleeping arrangements. Her rooms in the Red Keep and Riverrun were fit for a woman of her station, the former due to her new inheritance to Winterfell as well as her soon-to-be wedding to Tyrion Lannister; on the road to the North, she drowsed under the stars, surrounded by the men and women of the column. She was never alone with Oberyn, save for recently. _There's no one alive left to care about courtly rules_ , Sansa tells herself, weary, _no one but me_. Thoros already assumed she and Oberyn were married.

"It's too early," Sansa murmurs, unwilling to move from their corner of the cave yet.

Oberyn chuckles.

"We're at war, Your Grace. Time is of the essence."

Sansa sits up at last, unable to argue with that logic. She's no stranger to it, after all this time. Some days, it feels as if her entire life has had a war.

"So quick to flee our marriage bed for the battlefield, Sansa?" Oberyn questions, all innocence. She laughs, feeling some of her unease wither away.

"Florys," she corrects, smiling down at him. His amusement is contagious, and slows her departure.

"Of course, of course." His fake Reach accent is flawless. Still supine, Oberyn gazes up at her, warming Sansa further with a look. "Florys and Garin."

That piques her interest. "Garin?" Sansa asks, smoothing out her dress. He captures one hand in both of his own, holding it like a prized plaything.

"Garin the Great," Oberyn explains, fingertips tracing shapes on her skin. The touch makes her want to shiver. "The last prince of the Essosi Rhoynar. He ruled Chroyane during the Second Spice War." He moves their hands to his chest, so Sansa can feel the movement of his every breath under her palm. Absentmindedly, Sansa splays her fingers over his ribs, as Oberyn watches her with intent eyes. This way, it seems as if Oberyn himself is a lyre, and Sansa is plucking his strings, drawing out a story instead of a song. "The Valyrian Freehold was expanding little by little across the continent. The Rhoynar beat them back for two and a half centuries, you see. The dragons could not frighten us even then, although they tried." At her smile, Oberyn continues, unraveling yet another tale, as is their custom. The rest of the story comes out like a sigh. She can't bring herself to look away. "This time, the Volantenes joined the Valyrians and destroyed Sarhoy, a Rhoynish port on the Summer Sea. Garin was...inconsolable."

Sansa imagines a dashing prince with Oberyn's features, screaming a vow of vengeance to a sky full of ashes.

"Garin gathered an army of two hundred and fifty thousand men," Oberyn tells her, "and Valyria _trembled_."

Scaring the dragonlords? Sansa's impressed look slips past her defenses. The Rhoynar's enmity stretched back longer than even she knew.

His breathing is steady under her hand as the end of the story unravels like a banner. It's a sad story, she realizes. The fall of a dynasty that nonetheless gave birth to a new hero, the one who came to Dorne with ten thousand ships in her fleet and changed all the rules. "When his army failed, Garin called upon Mother Rhoyne from his golden cage, and the dragonlords were destroyed. The waters of Chroyane rose and drowned them all, making the splendid city into the Sorrows. Stone men stand in the place of singers," he concludes, "and a fog forever blots out the sun."

Silently, Sansa mulls over Oberyn's words. Beyond the appearance of Florys from the Reach and Garin from Dorne being star-crossed, and the nightmare of Garin the Great's final stand, Sansa senses something else behind his words. Another day Oberyn had spun a tale so well, they were playing _cyvasse_ in Riverrun, and contemplating statecraft. The last time he had done so, they discussed Stoneheart and the magic of Qohor.

It _also_ seems like Oberyn is comparing himself to a man that may have singlehandedly caused the Doom of Valyria. Showy as a mummer, she remembers thinking in Harroway, surprised yet charmed by him, then and now. He still captures her attention, regaling Sansa by touch and tale as he did for the column, recounting the Mountain's demise and the trial by combat, effortlessly enthralling them all over the flames of the camp fires.

"You adore theatrics, my prince," she accuses, trying not to smile. That sums it _all_ up.

Leave it to Oberyn to pick a false name for the deception against the Freys with a bigger, more elaborate history than her own.

His mouth shifts into a grin, chasing away the solemnity on his face in the blink of an eye. He looks a bit pleased with himself.

"It kept your mind off our undertaking, did it not?"

She was right. He _was_ diverting her worries, and twining a layer of mystique into the endeavor. Small wonder he was so adept at _cyvasse_ and acting as Prince Doran's right hand all these years; it's impossible to predict just what he will do or say next. "For the moment," she allows, mollified.

In hindsight, she sees why Ellaria speaks so bluntly, so honestly. Oberyn's tendencies for wordplay and tricks must draw out her frustrations.

" _A_ respite is better than none at all," he points out, releasing her hands to stretch his arms over his head. The groan that escapes him at the motion brings a flush to her face. Sansa finds that she likes him like this—sleepy, disheveled, and attuned to her concerns without needing to be asked.

"Shall we break our fast?" She queries, immensely thankful for him, suddenly. Ellaria saw and Oberyn heard Sansa, then and now. They _know_ her.

His answering smile is lazy, edging on coy. Too lazy to talk with a queen, but why tell him to stop when she _likes_ the look of it so much?

"We shall."

* * *

After breakfast, Sansa dresses in one of the borrowed gowns from the wheelhouse and seeks out Geremy, little Arron's father.

"Aye, y'Grace," Geremy promises once she explains what she wants him to do, pocketing the missive. His wife, Alyce, urges her son forward.

"You'll watch over this for me?" She asks, waiting for Arron's full attention before placing Robb's crown into his hands. His eyes widen. It feels like only moments ago that they were playing a game together. Now, she's bound for the Twins and he's off to Seagard, armed with a single duty. 

Solemnly, Arron nods. If all goes well, Sansa will retrieve it at Seagard. If not...Jeyne Westerling receives the crown and Sansa's bid to remove Jon from the Night's Watch, Ser Brynden gets a missive with an explanation, and Ellaria...Sansa will send Oberyn back to her, alive, and all in one piece, as a parting gift.

"Stay safe," Alyce says, looking stern until Sansa nods in reply. The woman's lack of deference is...refreshing. "We'll need you at Seagard."

That was one stipulation of her agreement with Harwin, among many others—the smallfolk in the hollow hill must be moved to safety. While the Brotherhood's available and able joined Sansa, the rest will march to meet her column and the armies of the river lords. Thanks to Oberyn's admission and Thoros's vision, Sansa knows that the Frey siege of Seagard has been broken. With her men ensconced around a stronghold like Lord Mallister's, there is no better place for Arron, Alyce, and Geremy. Robb's and Uncle Edmure's people were now hers, after all; she has to take care of them all, one way or another.

The weight of the crown lingers, long after Arron's left. Times were simpler when she was his age. Now, she has duties and grief.

And Oberyn, she reminds herself again, unable to stop the widening of her smile when she sees just what he's wearing as his musician's disguise.

"You look like a fool," Tom chortles, looking Oberyn's surcoat up and down. With a round cap and its feather, he looks like a true Reachman.

"A handsome fool, my prince," Sansa tells him as she gets to his side. The frills amuse her. "Shall I paint you, and give your likeness to Ellaria?"

Oberyn has other ideas. "You may paint me," the prince decides, every word just for her ears, "in any manner of dress you please."

Sansa's flush flies from her throat to her toes, searing every bit of skin like a burn. There's little to misunderstand in _that_ admission.

Eyes twinkling, he offers her an arm, a jaunty smile spreading across his face.

"Shall we go?" He asks, beatific, warm, and just as charming as ever.

She smiles back in spite of everything ahead of them. With Oberyn on her arm, the strain cracks down the middle like the ice on a pond giving way to spring. With her arm in his, he gets an equal measure of the weight on her shoulders, as if they were truly married and running an estate. A lord and a lady from less influential families, perhaps, and ones that aren't entrenched so irrevocably in this game of thrones. A simpler life.

A fantasy. And one with a missing piece.

Florys Flowers and Garin of the Greenblood will just have to do for now, she muses, then echoes his earlier words.

"We shall."

* * *

A great susurrus greets the wheelhouse as it approaches the Twins, roaring like a lion. As the carriage creeps along the bank, Sansa twitches the curtain to the side for a look. She studies the murky waters of the Green Fork, taking this time to remember _why_ they are here. At some point in the war, Walder Frey broke faith with Robb and conspired against him. According to Ser Patrek, Lord Walder and his son, Lothar, were chief architects of the Red Wedding. With Lord Roose Bolton somewhere up north, and Lady Sybell Spicer, Black Walder and Edwyn Frey in captivity, and Joffrey and Lord Tywin in whichever of the seven hells that laid claim to them, the list of culprits that are within Sansa's grasp is still lengthy.

Stoneheart sits silently opposite Sansa and Oberyn, with Thoros in a new cloak at her side. Harwin and Lem sit atop the carriage, acting as its drivers. To Brienne's dismay, Sansa instructed her, Podrick, and Ser Hyle to follow the wheelhouse on foot with the rest of the outlaws, at least until the group was safely inside the western castle. Once beyond the gatehouse, Brienne will stay armored and answer only to Ser Galladon, Florys Flowers's favored knight. The Brotherhood will act as the protectors and hangers-on of the troupe, sent by express order when news of the turmoil in the Riverlands reached the Arbor and the ears of Sansa's supposed Redwyne father. The guise is as thin as paper, Sansa estimated, no stranger to nerves and strategic ploys, but Tom assured her otherwise. The Freys believe they've won—their defenses will be down.

"Halt!"

Lem stops the horses. Oberyn joins Sansa outside meet the sentries, resting a hand at the small of her back.

"What's your business at the Twins?" The nearest guard asks, teeth chattering. Well accustomed to the cold, Sansa simply smiles.

"Lord Walder sent for us," she answers, passing over the invitation that Tom took from the troupe.

A broken seal sits on either end of the page, dimpled with Walder Frey's own crest. The guard inspects the note that details the Maiden's Day present for the Frey women, then waves them on. It's easier than Sansa expected, for an enterprise that banks so precariously on a deception. The Twins can't be taken by storm, she knows; if none of their pretenses are questioned, she need not worry.

"Alas," Thoros remarks as the wheelhouse gets moving again, knowingly voicing Sansa's thoughts, "the difficult parts yet await us."

A steward awaits their party in the castle courtyard, surrounded by a band of shivering grooms and servants. The carriage stops again.

"Be welcome in my lord's hearth and home," the man greets, helping Sansa down. "I am Sedgekins, Lord Walder's second steward."

A lady would never question the phrasing, but Sansa is playing a bastard girl, and thus indulges her curiosity. "Second?" She prompts.

"Well—" Sedgkins nods to Oberyn, who has joined Sansa silently. "Lothar is my lord's first steward. I only oversee the western castle, you see."

She feels Oberyn's eyes on her back. This confirms suspicions of Lord Walder residing in the other castle, with the sons, grandsons, and so on.

"Forgive our interest," Oberyn ventures. His accent is impeccable, reminding Sansa to work on her own. "We know little of your...hierarchy."

"Of course, of course." Sedgekin's grooms bustle about, collecting instruments and chests from the wheelhouse and escorting the members of the Brotherhood away. Without his signature cloak, Lem is a new man. Tom wears a hat and an eyepatch to conceal his own identity, already well known to certain Freys; Thoros has disposed of his pink robes, shedding the persona of a red priest. Thoros and Stoneheart linger with Sansa, along with Brienne. Sansa prays for Stoneheart's cooperation in the undertaking, a factor she considered only briefly with Harwin. She isn't Sansa's mother anymore, but the Green Fork was where Lady Stark died and where Lady Stoneheart emerged. Sansa can hardly stomach stepping foot in the castles herself, let alone enter either with a nefarious purpose. "What shall I call you?" Sedgekins asks, pleasantly, missing the fraught silence.

"Florys Flowers," Sansa answers with a smile, putting effort into her wobbly curtsy and ignorance of etiquette. It's her best Arya imitation.

"Garin," says Oberyn, doffing his hat.

Sedgekins escorts the group to their quarters, promising to return at evenfall to fetch the group for the first performance.

"Remember," Jack insists to the assembly when the steward is gone, " _don't_ eat the food." Jack's a superstitious fellow, but Sansa can't help but agree with him. She's entitled to her vengeance, as long as she follows the rules. The welcome to Lord Walder's hearth and home must be ignored.

Oberyn strums a lyre as Sansa's unorthodox council gathers around the two of them at once—Tom, Thoros, Stoneheart, Lem, and Brienne.

"What now, Your Grace?" Brienne asks, towering over all. She and Ser Hyle carry the most misgivings about the plan, but only the latter grumbles about it. A model of courtesy, Brienne keeps her own counsel. _She'll even die for you_ , Jaime Lannister said. Sansa will not let it come to that.

"You'll accompany Oberyn and I to find the Lady Roslin," Sansa answers, still a little out of sorts to be looked to as the Brotherhood's highest authority, much like her earlier conferences in Riverrun with Robb's lords. After years in King's Landing acting as invisibly as possible, being thrust into the spotlight as not a lady but a queen is still an adjustment. Stoneheart's gaze hardens at the mention of Roslin Tully, but she offers nothing aloud, to Sansa's relief. "Tom, bring Pod and Ser Hyle around the castle with you. Everyone is invited to our performance: bastards, cooks, footmen, guards, heralds, hostlers, scullions, wet nurses, you name it." It will be easier to confine an audience when she knows the entire staff of servants is in attendance alongside the Frey highborn ladies. "Then find the armory and remember where it is." That knowledge, too, is a crucial piece.

"And myself?" Thoros asks.

"Stay with Lem," Sansa orders with a surreptitious glance at Stoneheart. _Stay with her_. Thoros nods, understanding. "Practice your harmonizing."

"You'd better ask a bag of cats to sing," says Lem, snidely. Thoros laughs, unperturbed.

"Don't speak so ill of your own talents, Lemoncloak!"

Indignant sputters from Lem provide the perfect opportunity to exit. With Brienne and Oberyn in tow, Sansa goes off in search of Roslin.

* * *

Meeting Roslin feels as momentous as the unveiling of Stoneheart, Sansa decides, arm in Oberyn's, reviewing all she knows of her good aunt. With a few golden dragons as encouragement from 'Garin', a servant directed the three of them to Roslin's chambers. _Yes, my lady_ , Patrek Mallister gulped before Riverrun was saved. _I h-helped bring Lady Roslin to the bedchamber. I was japing with the fiddlers, when..._ Edmure was more forthcoming about Roslin. _She wasn't part of it_ , Sansa's uncle swore, so adamant she was forced to believe him. _The Red Wedding. She tried—she tried to tell me...she wept..._ Reuniting husband and wife after a costly war is the stuff of Sansa's lost dreams and favorite songs. _They have Lord Piper's son_ , Sansa herself reminded Oberyn, desperation rattling to her anew. _And Lady Roslin. I can't...it wouldn't be right to leave them there._

Oberyn pointed out the virtue of her desires, but just as quickly appealed to reason. _You can't satisfy everyone, nor should you try._

Now, Sansa is in the Twins. Her plans inch toward fruition, as danger mounts as high as the Wall. Failure is likely, but also not an option.

A question floats to mind, presenting an angle she hasn't considered much in all her planning. "What would Ellaria think of Roslin?" She asks. Ellaria is sorely missed between the two of them, she knows. Sansa wonders if Oberyn and Ellaria have been so far apart in all their years together.

He considers, a little smile on his lips. He's never made Sansa feel as if she's wrested him from his paramour, but her guilt over the issue is never far. "She's always favored a measure of a person as an individual, not by their family. The name plays it own part, of course, but..." Their steps slow by half. He's reminiscing. "She would say to judge Roslin herself, not her father. Bastards are defined from birth, she says, so they must forge their own paths quickly. Your choices define you, not your sire." Ellaria seems close to her Uller relatives, Sansa remembers, recalling jibes exchanged between Ser Ulwyck and Ellaria. But, it could've been _very_ different. Her mother's regard for Jon was one example. Another, Sansa supposes, is one generation of the Blackfyres and Targaryens. Bloodraven stood with Daeron II; Bittersteel backed Daemon the Black Dragon.

Ellaria's perspective was just the thing Sansa wanted from the court and Joffrey in King's Landing. Surviving in the Red Keep meant hugging her pride of being a Stark tearfully close to her chest. It also meant begging to be seen as separate from the deeds of her family.

"And you, ser?" The walls in any keep are hollow, so she favors caution in spite of her pursuit of counsel. 'Galladon' pauses, considering.

"A father's shadow looms large, my lady." Brienne dislikes reverting from Sansa's title, but she doesn't deign to say so. "It...it all depends on Roslin."

 _Fair advice_ , Sansa decides, resolving to soften her heart some, like Ellaria's first impression saw in her, _from both_.

Roslin has no attending servant, so Brienne knocks on the door and Roslin herself answers it.

"Yes?" Roslin's gaze flits from one to the other in the line and back, but her eyes linger longest on Sansa, then her hair. Thoros suggested a black dye to conceal her identity, even with the feigned connection to the Redwynes and resemblance to Lady Catelyn, but he was outvoted. _You want to rescue your northmen_? Lem barked, sounding so much like her dear dead Hound that she held her breath. _Keep the dye. Let them see **you**_.

Oberyn saves Sansa when she can't muster the words fast enough. Roslin is no sneering knight of the Red Keep with an insult to spread behind her back, but the momentary flight of Sansa's wits hits just the same. "Will you permit us to entertain you, my lady?" He asks, playing the grand mummer of Harroway again. "Our Maiden's Day event starts at evenfall, but my wife felt it discourteous to exclude you from the festivities."

All the other women are invited, Sansa knows, but Roslin's been shut away in a lonely corridor of the western castle, unlikely to emerge...

Roslin's skin colors a pale pink. The surprise is endearing, Sansa has to admit. Roslin looks touched by the offer. "Thank—I thank you. Come in."

With Oberyn's hand in hers, Sansa follows. The chambers, she sees, are large but simply designed. Unfit for Roslin's station, Sansa observes. None of Roslin's new husband's colors shows in the drapes, comforters, or clothing, per custom; the scheme is the dark blue and grey hues of Frey heraldry and the Twins, defiantly devoid of the Tully red. The only splash of color in the room that connects Roslin to Sansa's family is her good aunt's embroidery, which was set aside to answer the summons. Sansa picks up the tambour frame reverently, letting go of Oberyn. Roslin has a steady hand and skill—and is sending a message, despite being all alone. A Tully trout sits in the center of the hoop, half completed.

"For my lord husband," says Roslin, watching Sansa with a serenity that melts into a steely awareness. "For when we find each other again."

A new round of half-truths and wordplay, with the stakes only marginally lower than those within Red Keep. Sansa smiles back, undeterred.

"What would you say, my lady, if someone came into your castle and spirited you away to Edmure?" Too entangled in the war effort and betrayed by allies, Robb couldn't perform such a rescue for Sansa. But _she_ can help Roslin in the same manner, with the same crown and purpose.

The pretense of entertaining Roslin got them through the door, but gauging her loyalty is a different matter altogether. Sansa had her mind on the small struggles in court to save her skin, and outside, on the run with Ellaria, Oberyn, and the column, all of the larger adventures to reclaim Robb's kingdom, but she knows now the value of these quiet engagements. It's nothing like the breaking of Riverrun's siege, where the Lannisters and Freys were attacked unawares and lost a strategic strangehold on the Riverlands. These moments are just as crucial. She went to Cersei in a soft aside about Father's intentions to return to the North, and the entire deck of cards collapsed, changing Sansa's life forever.

Roslin smooths her hands over her belly, self conscious. She's getting far along, and already showing. Sansa's eyes stay on Roslin's hands, however. They're shaking. "I'd say..." Roslin trails off. It's a relief to spar with someone with courtesies not as quite as sharply polished as Sansa's—it makes Roslin seem more...genuine, like Jeyne Westerling. She's less of an _idea_ and more of a person. "I would say, let me help in any way I can."

"And if your rescuer was...your late king's sister?" Sansa asks, hearing Brienne draw in a sharp breath. Oberyn is silent.

Roslin's eyes crinkle at the corners, relief plain. "I knew you looked familiar, my lady," says Roslin, dipping carefully into a curtsy. "Lady Sansa, I presume? You..." Roslin hesitates, looking a little sad. Her eyes well up, but she dashes a hand to them, hastily, and clears her throat, seemingly determined to say her piece. "I almost mistook you for your mother, my lady. She was a fine woman." Sansa wonders if that is courtesy or civility, but doesn't question it. Roslin knows her, and that is enough.

"Thank you," says Sansa, instead of _she's downstairs and not quite the woman you knew_. "A simple error." She's either Robb or Catelyn to all who meet her. It saddens and gladdens in equal measure—she can see both of them in her own face, resistant to vanquishing by her own memory.

Roslin nods. "Now," she begins, regaining her poise, "how may I help you? You did not find your way into my castle by accident, I trust?"

She and Jeyne are alike in this, Sansa can't help but notice, comparing one to the other. One made a widow and the other made a hostage in the War of the Five Kings, yet both made Sansa's family by virtue of marriage. Both eager to help, although Jeyne has lost her shyness and Roslin still a stranger. Sansa must leave Roslin behind in the Riverlands with Edmure, but bring Jeyne with her to the North, as her friend and steward.

"Our strategy will go much better with an accurate rendering of your castles," Oberyn explains, interrupting the exchange to pass over a piece of parchment from Roslin's own supplies, pilfered from her desk when the interplay went on, and a quill. "Our source is rather daft, you see." Jack-Be-Lucky is who Oberyn refers to, but Sansa thinks of Stoneheart. Harwin insisted Stoneheart remembers everything, but Sansa has her doubts. Thus, Roslin's contribution became necessary.

Roslin obligingly accepts the quill and the parchment, but doesn't move yet.

"What strategy?"

"Your Grace," Brienne cautions. Oberyn settles on a low divan, watching closely.

"Your father betrayed Robb," Sansa answers, disposing of her courtesies for the moment. It's easier to be angry. "I'm here for him, and Lothar."

Roslin blinks. "You mean to slay them."

"I do." Sansa won't do it herself, but justice demands as much of her. Lothar and Lord Walder will be brought back to Seagard along with the Brotherhood to await execution in front of her lords and people. "No one but the perpetrators will be harmed." Sansa means to keep the women and children far away from the event, not wanting any of them to feel the terrible sickness of being so near to their father and being unable to intervene, or convince others around them to help. Moments like this one remind Sansa of how little she's felt prepared for wearing Robb's crown, and how heavy it feels even in an absence. Cutting off heads may be enjoyable to men like the Hound, or even Joffrey, Sansa decides, grimly, but it seldom makes people eager to follow him.

"Spare my brother, Perwyn," says Roslin, with unexpected, wavering bravery, "and I'll make your map."

Sansa doesn't glance at Oberyn or Brienne, even if she'd like to. It falls to her to hear Roslin out, and decide. "Was he..." Sansa can't say it.

Roslin has her answer ready, anxiousness making the parchment rattle. She nearly drops the quill, but Sansa watches her fingers grasp it, whitening her knuckles. "He wasn't involved," she insists, losing what little composure she's managed to hold onto since Sansa arrived. Sansa watches the tears come back, unable to find any artifice in them. Not even Cersei attempted _tears_. "He _wasn't_. Benfrey escorted me to see your lord uncle before the wedding, but Perwyn disappeared with Alesander when I was gone. Fair Walda told me they were both confined to their rooms b-because they admired your brother so much. My brother, Olyvar—he...he squired for King Robb. Father sent him all the way to Rosby after—"

Sansa holds up a hand. Roslin gulps.

"I'll spare Perwyn."

Sansa would spare the entire House if it was actually possible. She's tired of war and wants to go home, but her crown is made of bronze, not silver or gold. Bronze lasts longer than either one and meant for sterner stuff. The Starks are hardy people, with long memories like true northmen. Her men will question her if she doesn't correct the wrongs done to her family, with the opportunity so near in her power. Robb and her lady mother would still be living if not for the Freys, Lannisters, and Boltons. Sansa can no longer look at things as the Lady of Winterfell—she must stand in her brother's kingly boots and dispense justice, no matter what it entails. She looks at Roslin, drawing in a breath to calm herself. "It's a horrible thing, to lose a brother," Sansa confesses, feeling like a small piece of her is thawing out with the admission, "and I've lost three of them and a sister. Perwyn will be spared, my lady. You have my word as a Stark."

It isn't hard to reconcile sparing Perwyn with her terrible anger that always summons feelings of vengeance in her blood, making it boil. She lived like Roslin and Perwyn, trapped and blameless. There are innocent Freys in the Twins. She has to ensure the Brotherhood is made aware of it.

Roslin's smile is a pretty, teary beam. She wipes her eyes with the handkerchief that Oberyn offers, shoulders sagging with relief.

"You're very kind, my—Your Grace," Roslin corrects, sniffling, remembering Brienne's earlier cue.

 _For your gentle heart, my lady_ , Ellaria said on the _Vaith's Vixen_ , still a stranger to Sansa but a perceptive one, much like their prince.

Sansa's grateful to hear it. She feared her capacity for kindness was gone. "You're my lady aunt," she tells Roslin, softly. "You and I are family now."

Roslin settles on the divan next to Oberyn, sketching out a diagram just as she remembers herself. "And who might you be, sers?" Roslin wonders.

"Well," Sansa answers, "the knight at the door is Brienne of Tarth, also a lady. This," she adds, smiling at Oberyn, "is Prince Oberyn of Dorne."

Roslin's sketching slows a little. "Prince Oberyn?" She repeats, interestedly, curiosity clear. "What brings you to our queen?"

He adopts his mummer persona, but sincerity and affection charges the air like wildfire as he returns Sansa's smile. "We're returning to Winterfell," Oberyn explains, instead of _I'm **bringing** Sansa to Winterfell_. Sansa's melancholia flees the room. "It's been a _grand_ adventure thus far."

"May Perwyn join you?" Roslin asks, labeling corners and corridors. "He's a good knight."

"Perwyn will better serve me in your company, in Riverrun," Sansa answers, preferring to protect _these_ Freys by deflecting inevitable scrutiny off them. Roslin beams all over again, growing less and less shy with Sansa by the minute. Behind her courtesies, she's Sansa's own age, Sansa suspects. Youthful, but made much older by the strain of the War of the Five Kings and all its losses. "He'll join your household and serve Edmure."

"Is—is Edmure well?" Roslin asks, passing the sketch to Oberyn. She hesitates, a pink flush to her face. "We were...separated, after the wedding."

Roslin was one of the few things Edmure spoke of. "He misses you. He worries for you, and the baby," Sansa admits.

Roslin's hands drift back down to her belly. "The babe kicks, sometimes," Roslin admits, almost whispering. "Our maester believes it will be a boy."

Oberyn hands over the sketch for Sansa's inspection. In a delicate hand, Roslin indicates the armory, the kitchens, living quarters, the banquet hall, and the lord's solar. The castles are identical, so it can be also used in the next assault. "Thank you," says Sansa, giving it back to Oberyn.

Roslin takes Sansa's hands in her own, big brown eyes alight with feeling. In an instant, Sansa's reminded of all the ladies of her favorite songs. Roslin is Jenny and Edmure is the Prince of Dragonflies, she muses, thinking of the romance rather than the details, still able to appreciate the stories. Being a queen hasn't removed Sansa's likes and dislikes—she just shoulders more responsibilities than she used to, and a new, albeit bleaker perception of the world. Beauty can belie an ugly self, any story has many moving parts, and one's luck can change in a moment's notice.

"Thank you," she tells Sansa, "for giving me hope when I thought it was lost forever."

* * *

"Well done, little wife," Oberyn murmurs as they stride from the room, knowing what little time is left before the performance.

They left Roslin with strict instructions to remain in her chambers for the evening. Resolute and much braver in Sansa's presence, Roslin agreed.

"Are you sure?" Sansa asks, drawing Oberyn aside. Brienne waits from a respectful distance. She sighs, frustrated with herself. Articulating her worries of doing right by Robb and Mother and Father and all the rest is a long, difficult process. She can find something nice to say about anyone, even the Hound, but stringing her own feelings into an orderly manner is like untangling a dozen sailor's knots in the dark. "I felt...I worry I've—"

 _I worry I've done everything wrong_ , Sansa wants to say. _I fear as though my steps just ahead are shrouded in darkness, and no light—not even **you** —will guide me out._ Thoros says _Sansa_ herself brightens the road ahead of them, but she has no love of R'hllor. What if he's wrong?

"You were very queenly," Oberyn assures her, smiling softly. She's always amazed when he defies his reputation so thoroughly, so effortlessly. He can be a bloodthirsty man by his own admission, but Sansa and Ellaria are privy to a tender side of him, the product of his loving heart. "There's nothing wrong with kindness. Some say it makes a _good_ queen," he jokes, playful. The good will in his eyes remains. "Shall I call you...Alysanne?"

"Don't tease," she protests, slightly soothed. "I _love_ Queen Alysanne."

"I know."

A worry slips past her defenses, this time on his behalf. "Do you miss your family?" She asks, abruptly, plucking one of the bunch.

He sobers, and for a few moments, is silent. Sansa almost wishes she hadn't asked, just to preserve the sentiment and his good cheer. "I do. Obara and Nymeria are so near, yet so far away. My other girls...save Sarella, are dozens of leagues away in Dorne." Oberyn's hands slide down her arms, until his hands are in hers. They don't have time to assuage her feelings, but Oberyn defies so much in his life. "But we are not always together, Sansa. Tyene stays with Arianne, Nymeria adores Skyreach...my four girls with Ellaria like to visit Hellholt. We are accustomed to being apart from each other. With you, Sansa, my cause for the distance is true. Loreza will love to hear of all our adventures," says Oberyn, a fond smile returning to his mouth. "King's Landing to Riverrun, Seagard to Winterfell, bringing you home at last...it's a song waiting to be written, wouldn't you say?"

It _is_.

"I write," Sansa offers, flustered. The idea jumped to mind so fast, she had to say it. "We could write it together. Garin," she adds, hastily.

He bows, pleased with the idea. "It would be my honor, Florys."

They don't return to the subject of her worries until they're almost in their own quarters. Brienne looks elsewhere as Oberyn draws her to him again in an impulse that is far afield of chivalry, though Sansa doesn't mind. They're already leaning toward one another, pulled nearer and nearer like a lick of flame to new timber. The air is set ablaze again, humming with promise. Throat dry, Sansa looks up at Oberyn, waiting for a reason. He isn't finished with her yet, it seems.

"I'm with you because I _want_ to be," Oberyn insists. Never shy about proximity, he cups her jaw with a hand, tracing a thumb along her cheek. Sansa can't quite remember if she considered the limits of propriety in their disguise, but she abandons that concern in favor of listening, glad they're hidden from prying eyes in an alcove. "So is Ellaria. We helped because you needed it, but no one made us steal you away. No one commands me, yet...here I stand." They're sharing breaths now, noses almost brushing. Sansa's had kisses before, but not _this_. Not anticipation, save for her and Ellaria's sojourn in the Red Fork. "For you. I know what I want, Sansa," he tells her. "I want to help you get back to Winterfell."

It's all the assurances she wanted, although there's a nagging feeling Sansa cannot shake of something missing.

"And after?" She asks, barely able to stop _is that all you want_ from getting past her. His forehead brushes against hers.

"After?" He pretends to ponder it. "After, you can entertain Ellaria and I with your...northern theatrics."

That doesn't seem like what he was going to say, she decides, summoning her own bravery. "I'll need suggestions," says Sansa, answering the unspoken intent as glibly as she dares. "I've never...entertained before." He must know already. She was only betrothed, and yet unmarried.

Oberyn's eyes dance with interest, bypassing a mere flirtation. "We'd be happy to show the queen the ropes," he hums, making Sansa realize the missing link in the assurances and the idle fantasy of Oberyn and Sansa running a keep of their own in safe anonymity. _Ellaria_.

She smiles, ignoring the steady crawl of a flush on her skin. "First, we win our battles, my prince, _then_ we retreat to our marriage bed."

It's very difficult to think of the life beyond and after the assault on the Twins, with tensions so high, but she wants _them_ as much as she's wanted anything. No one will ever marry Sansa for love, but she can _have_ love in this lifetime, if she only allows it to happen.

"Well said, Your Grace. You're beginning to sound _delightfully_ Dornish."

* * *

The moment of truth arrives at last.

Sansa practices songs under her breath; Oberyn strums a lyre with nimble fingers; Tom lazily plucks a woodharp; Lem hits a drum with some enthusiasm. They're only warming up, but the banquet hall is filling quickly. Lady Joyeuse granted her permission to let every sorry soul in the western Twin attend, something Sansa is sure will be regretted. There's hardly any room to move around, let alone see anything going...amiss.

Tom and Oberyn give Sansa expectant looks, apparently done pretending they need to prepare for a performance. She swallows, yet nods, accepting the burden of authority again. This assault on the Twins was not her idea, but the need for justice and vengeance grew like a weed in her heart nonetheless, invading her system until the Brotherhood came to her with a plan, a plan inspired by her own. She has to see it through.

"Happy Maiden's Day," Sansa announces, once Lady Frey's herald has shouted for quiet. Lord Walder's wife is pregnant, Sansa sees, discomforted.

She has no intention of praying for the Mother's gentleness now, like she did in the Blackwater. This evening, she has the Father's justice in mind.

"Happy Maiden's Day," the Frey girls chorus, highborn and lowborn alike.

The oldest girls carry unlit candles, more yellow and small than the tall white wax tapers that Sansa remembers from Winterfell. She always listened intently to her septa's instructions, while Arya listened not quite so intently, if not at all in the years just prior to the arrival of King Robert. The littlest girls have taken to wearing the parchment garlands that are to hang from the Maiden's neck, too young to take the holiday seriously. One of the smallest girls pries herself free from the row of her kin to shout the first request, ignoring an elder cousin's quelling grab.

"'The Fair Maids of Summer'!" Shirei Frey bellows.

 _Arron is better behaved than you_ , Sansa thinks, nevertheless keeping her unkindest, unladylike thoughts to herself and off her face. For a time, she is Florys. Florys Flowers has no quarrel with anybody, least of all the squirrely, shrieking, sour faced populace of the Twins.

"At once, m'lady," Tom declares, graciously, and strikes up the melody without further ado.

Lem's drumming follows Tom's notes as best he can (which is not well) as Dennett rattles the timbrel. Oberyn and Tom's slightly different sounds never drown each other out, nor Sansa. Singing in front of a number of people associated with her enemies is frighteningly...easy. She's loved singing ever since she could string words together, delighting when it made her mother smile. Singing helped Sansa through the worst of times, too, the worst all taking place over the past few years. She sang for the Hound once, begging for a reprieve from the Mother so his rage could be soothed; she joined her voice to the other women's in Maegor's Holdfast as the Blackwater raged on and men screamed and died below; among the Tyrell girls, Sansa once helped the group serenade Butterbumps himself in thanks for all his service to Margaery's family, making the fool laugh and chortle; among her Dornish rescuers in the last breaths of autumn, Sansa murmured strains and shanties that were favored south of the Boneway.

It's just the five of them acting as the troupe, with Brienne intently watching from the doors, playing the part of a knight unwilling to be separated from her lady. It isn't anywhere far from the truth. The rest of the Brotherhood, meanwhile, has the less arduous job of waiting for the next phase.

After fulfilling some of the song requests on her own, Sansa and Oberyn collaborate for the duet he promised just days ago in the hollow hill, starting with 'The False and the Fair'. Sansa guiltily enjoys that, thanks to Oberyn's tendency to steal the spotlight by yanking her into a twirl and easy round of steps, while the Frey girls take up the chorus themselves to accompany their impromptu dancing.

"Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey..." Serra and Sarra yell, their hair as red as hers. Little Bee and Arwyn dance in the aisles between the benches. Lady Joyeuse speaks with a neighbor, looking rather bored. A pair of Rivers girls fling food at one another, done fasting. Servants don't bustle to and fro like the ones Sansa has seen all her life—for once, they are free to sit and chat amongst themselves. Even the guardsmen normally stationed in front of the doors have entered the room, leaving the hall completely vulnerable. When she has a moment to spare, Sansa sees Brienne peer just once beyond the doorjamb, waiting for a cue from her.

"The lady lay a-kissing, upon a mound of Hay..." Oberyn croons for the Freys, earning many a lovesick sigh from the audience despite the actual purpose of Maiden's Day, although he just has eyes for Sansa, to her upmost pleasure. Sansa smiles back, finishing the song. When the applause winds down, Garin and Florys strike up another duet, answering the requests of those nearest to them. They get through 'My Lady Wife' and 'Two Hearts that Beat as One', both of which were played at Joffrey's wedding, Sansa remembers with both a heavy heart and a familiar, vindictive itch.

 _This is a war_ , Sansa reminds herself, letting her conviction, determination, and anger waver and wane for a few shamefaced, stricken moments, until she's had her fill. _Was this how you felt_? Sansa wonders, gathering her strength and thinking of all who knew the Red Wedding was coming, resolve fortifying as her gaze fell to some of the older women. Some were wives, sisters, and daughters to the perpetrators. One is a wife of the sneering Edwyn Frey, another to Lothar, and yet another to Walder Rivers, who was fortunately slain at Riverrun. She can't— _won't_ —punish the children and wives of the men who killed the northmen, but she can prevent their interference with the next attack on the eastern castle.

"They're here, Florys," says Harwin, showing up to the great hall with the pretext of delivering new instruments. He passes off a fiddle to Dennett, waiting for her commands. Licking her lips in a futile attempt to quench her thirst, Sansa nods in acknowledgment, rises from her seat, and follows him to the door. One by one, the false troupe makes its way to the entrance, deaf to the confusion and mingled annoyance from their audience.

"You weren't finished," Kyra Frey snaps, wine sloshing as she motions with her goblet.

"We gave you no leave to go," Zhoe Blanetree squawks, both drawing stares from onlookers.

Sansa keeps going, feeling the men swiftly form a shield wall around her. At the doors, Brienne waits, standing just beyond a score of Brotherhood men, Thoros, Stoneheart, and better yet, a legion of soldiers with crests of a dancing maiden. _They're here_ , indeed. Harwin and Jack and Nudge had done their duty. Once Sansa lured every sorry soul into the great hall, the Brotherhood stole from the armory, sealed off the rookery, and removed the guards at the gatehouse just in time to allow Geremy and his three hundred companions into the western castle, ahorse and armored.

 _Deliver a force to me and tell none other, my lord_ , Sansa wrote to Lord Piper, signing her name at the bottom, _and I'll bring Marq to you._

Two of Clement Piper's men flank Brienne, preventing anyone from leaving. Half the force will remain. The other will join Sansa in the next clash.

Too drunk or distracted to act, the Frey guards sit agape, while every lady wears a similar look. Horror and fear dawn slowly, like winter roses.

Sansa pivots to face Lady Joyeuse and her circle of noblewomen, dropping the friendly smile of Florys.

"The gods gave your husbands no leave to betray my brother, Robb," Sansa tells them, listening to the gasps of recognition around her.

She would give this all up, though—the obedience, the justice and vengeance, the crown, the power, the allegiance of all in the Riverlands and the North—in exchange for Robb and Mother and Father and Arya and Bran and Rickon and Jeyne and her sweet septa returning to life. Tristifer and Ben would still be alive, too. She'd gladly hand it all back, even the years, even the just favor of the old gods on her, until the sundials spun back far enough to save Jory, Alyn, even King Robert. Such can't be, Sansa knows now, and raises her chin in defiance, heavy grief, and cold anger. "You have my leave to live, Lady Joyeuse," she adds, honoring a vow to herself to never punish an innocent like she was in King's Landing, "along with your ladies, and your children. Strike at the Starks again, however, and you will not. The North remembers," Sansa reminds the group, letting her lady's armor drop entirely. Robb's crown is in Arron's hands in Seagard, but her courage hasn't gone with it. "And winter has come for you."

Listening to the growing swell of panic and terror behind her, Sansa sweeps from the room, taking her musicians, Brotherhood, and protectors along with her. Brienne binds the door, containing all occupants of the western castle within the great hall in a single, bloodless coup.

"What now, Your Grace?" The captain of the Piper men asks, after the necessary introductions. Soldiers bustle left and right, pilfering from the Frey armory. Sansa has yet to relax ( _alas_ , Thoros had said earlier, _the difficult parts yet await us_ ), but her burdens have lifted some.

Hooded and silent, Stoneheart watches Sansa, red eyes bright. For a moment, it seems as if they are both wolves, eagerly eyeing oblivious prey.

"We join Lord Frey, ser," Sansa answers, earning Oberyn's smirk and the hearty cheer of the Piper soldiers, "and celebrate Warrior's Day."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your lovely reviews. I'm so sorry I haven't answered anybody! School is really stressing me out and I pushed myself to get this chapter out so I could stop thinking about it and get back to work.
> 
> This is part two of the Frey attack. Again, it's twice as long as usual because I couldn't shut up. The third part (the sixteenth chapter) will be the last of this little "arc". After that, my chapters will send Sansa somewhere else. _Finally_ , right?  
>   
> Enjoy!

The hour of the bat approaches as the Piper men distribute rations to the Brotherhood, following Sansa's orders to ignore the Frey provender.

"For how long?" Tom complains. _It's not shameful in war, milady_ , the singer once explained, later endorsed by Oberyn himself.

"Until Lord Frey is in my custody," says Sansa, glad to apply a lady's selective blindness when dealing with annoyances. Tom of Sevenstreams has been a valuable ally over the course of her fight against the Lannisters and the Freys, but his manner just _grates_. He's too familiar with her by half and reminds Sansa unpleasantly of Lord Baelish. "One day more, at the most," she relents, prompting the appearance of Tom's foxlike smile.

"My thanks, Your Grace."

Oberyn waits for Tom to stride away to snicker. " _Your_ Grace," Oberyn entreats, mimicking Tom's Riverlander accent. "Oi! We're hungry."

Sansa purses her lips as she looks over the steward's accounts, utterly determined not to laugh. He will _not_ make her laugh.

"Your Grace," Oberyn continues, chortling to himself. He switches to Garin's dialect, easing closer to her. "Can't a poor singer do _something_ for m'lady high to earn his keep?" He asks, drawing Sansa's attention away with each winding beat of the drawl. "Some...service?" He asks, flirtatious.

At last, Sansa cracks a smile. "Stop that," she scolds, amusement overshadowing any frustration. The sums are not interesting as him. "I'm busy!"

"I'm busy!" Oberyn parrots, playful. Sansa's smile is so wide it hurts. "I simply have no _time_ to allow a singer strum my—"

She gasps in mingled disbelief, alarm, and a widening whit of mirth. He and Ellaria _always_ manage to wring mirth from Sansa. "Oberyn!"

"You're right," the prince remarks, pretending to think about it. "A whole night isn't enough to entertain you. May I suggest a sennight—"

" _Oberyn_."

He chortles again. "Very well," Oberyn concedes in mock disappointment, as Sansa hastily ensures no one is in earshot. "No strumming."

Sansa eyes him, crimson, suspicious, and well on her way to losing the battle with her laughter. "No speaking, either, my prince. I mean it."

Oberyn winks and mimes the turning of a lock and the tossing away of a key, before helping himself to some of the steward's papers. She shoots him an exasperated smile, although all of its bite is consumed by fondness. Once, in the eddying despair of her captivity in the Red Keep, Sansa realized that no one would ever marry her for love, not with the seat of Winterfell as a promising dowry. She was bethrothed to Tyrion Lannister, the least dangerous of them all but still a Lannister. The summer-like fantasy of marrying Willas Tyrell was snatched away by the queen regent and the Hand of the King, and as late as the morning of Joffrey's wedding, Sansa believed her family's words were meant just for her. Winter came too early for Lord Eddard's southron daughter, to her own peril and pitfalls. What could a drunken knight-turned-king's fool actually _do_ for her?

Then Ser Daemon had rowed her into Blackwater Bay, Ellaria had suggested a quest almost entirely of her own design, and Prince Oberyn had pledged himself and the swords of Dorne to Sansa's cause, all three aided and abetted by Lady Olenna, Lord Varys, and Ser Dontos. Sansa's affinity for the cold returned at long last, drawing the wolf in wait out from its hiding place among a lion pride. Winter _was_ coming, just not for her.

No one _will_ marry her for love, Sansa reasons, for once unobserved by another as she gazes at Oberyn and his examination of the Frey accounts, handsome features drawn close in concentration. That doesn't mean she won't find it _outside_ of a marriage with two people she adores.

"Learning my face for a portrait, my queen?" Oberyn asks without looking up from their bookkeeping. Apparently, she _was_ observed.

Sansa once believed that she only _appreciated_ that charisma rather than feeling something else. Something more, something that all the songs spoke of. It wasn't first time she'd dismissed or confused her own feelings, and it wouldn't be the last. Still, she hesitates. "No," Sansa confesses.

He glances up at her, curious. _He's seen so much_ , Sansa muses. _Can he not see **this**_? "What then?" Oberyn queries.

"Oberyn," she begins, no longer chiding him as she had been only minutes earlier. _You can only be brave when you are afraid_. And she truly is, despite all their pledges, their patience, their propensities. This isn't a mere fantasy, like Florys and Garin, or even the blushing frivolity she felt when Loras took her arm in his own. This is...this is more. This is bigger, Sansa realizes, finding failings in men like Loras and strengths in men like Oberyn, in women like Ellaria. Suddenly, it's all she can think about. Lifting the weight. _No_ , she remembers. _Sharing the weight_. "I—"

A knock to the door steals her words like the wind makes off with the sun's warmth, stuffing them right back down her throat. She's briefly relieved of a burden and disappointed by a missed opportunity in equal measure. Accustomed to setbacks, Sansa files it away to rest alongside the others.

 _Another time_.

"Forgive my interruption, Your Grace," Captain Barth ventures as he enters the solar, helm in hand. He bows. "May we speak?"

Oberyn hasn't looked away from her. "We may, ser," says Sansa, putting all her efforts into the answer. "What news?"

Her men at Seagard are well, if tense. They await news of her most anxiously, Sansa learns, guilt finding its way to her without fail.

"Allow me to send a rider, Your Grace," Barth pleads, the salt and pepper of his hair reminding Sansa strangely of Ser Brynden. By her estimation, none of her most near and dear have heard from her in over a week. For all intents and purposes, she and Oberyn have vanished into thin air.

"We'll be discovered," Oberyn points out, voicing Sansa's opinion from a quick study of her expression. "Their rookery has not be secured."

The Frey sieges of Riverrun and Seagard were broken in secret, though Sansa knows better than to count herself secure in a couple of victories. Robb never lost a battle—Duskendale led by a Glover and a Tallhart—and still lost the war. Sansa has to be thorough, not self assured.

"Levies from House Charlton could find us, ser," Sansa adds. "House Erenford and House Haigh as well." _One of the Erenfords sits in my custody_.

Rebuffed, Barth reluctantly drops the subject in exchange for another. "What do you intend to do for the Water Tower, my queen?"

She planned for both castles, but not the stronghold between. Arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises await her host if not routed from within.

"Send in my outlaws," Sansa answers, thinking of their disguises, "then your men." Unlike the Twins, which must be belied from safety to vulnerability with the continued lie of a Reach troupe stretched to its absolute limit, the Water Tower must become hers as soon as possible.

"At once, Your Grace."

Taking his leave, Barth's orders are cut off by Brienne closing the door. Picking at the rations left to her by the Piper contingent, Sansa returns her attention to the accounts. The hour of the bat has elapsed into the hour of the eel, yet Sansa cannot even consider sleeping, not under this roof.

"Ryman Frey held back much of their food and fodder from the Lannisters," Oberyn observes. "If I've interpreted this correctly..."

"As you often do," Sansa has to say, making him smile. He finishes the thought, a contemplative look on his brow.

"If I've interpreted this correctly, the Freys have enough stored food to last a five year winter."

 _It's not shameful in war, milady_. Mayhaps not, but Sansa cannot stop thinking of the Lady Joyeuse and the baby in her belly. "We'll take a year's worth from them," she decides, justifying that as what will feed the smallfolk that she sent to Seagard and made her own, "but no more."

"And their gold?" Oberyn prompts, showing her the final count from Sedgekins. It's a shock.

"Far more than half of it." Winterfell will need all the help it can get to recover from the Ironborn and the Boltons.

"Were we playing _cyvasse_ , I am certain you would've won against me already," Oberyn remarks.

"If only ruling a kingdom could be so easy," she jests, and he laughs.

* * *

Waiting for an update from Captain Barth, Sansa wanders the Twins like she did Riverrun.

Lit by torches, the castle appears as any other. She sees barbicans and portcullises on the outside, and finds rooms of many functions on the inside, as she would in the Red Keep or Winterfell, or even Castle Darry (the last being the simplest design of the three). The Frey sigil is hung and stamped everywhere, much like their House colors. Windows on the north facing side let Sansa see glimpses of the snow topped apple orchards and cornfields, all picked clean in preparation for the coming years of winter. The windows facing the south show the flooding waters of the Green Fork, still distantly rumbling. There's a lack of servants wandering around, thanks to Sansa's confinement of them all with their ladies.

It can be any other castle, but it isn't. Not to Sansa. Mother and Robb's last days were spent here, with Lady's at Darry and Father's (and maybe Arya's) at the Red Keep. Bran and Rickon's final moments were in Winterfell. And yet, Sansa long ago decided, Winterfell is the safest place for her.

"Your Grace?" Brienne prompts, gently, when Sansa has lingered in front the portrait of Forrest Frey. Forrest, she seems to recall, was a supporter of Rhaenyra's claim to the Iron Throne. Unlike his elderly descendent, _he_ never betrayed his queen's cause, however lost it was in the end.

"How did you come to serve my mother, Brienne?" Sansa asks, indulging her curiosity instead of dwelling on her nerves. "You never said."

"I served King Renly first, Your Grace," Brienne answers, coming to stand alongside Sansa before the portrait. For the first time, Sansa sees sadness on Brienne's face. "I fought...and won, in a melee in his honor at Bitterbridge. For my prize, His Grace granted my request to serve in the ranks of his Kingsguard. That was my dream, Your Grace. I only wanted to serve him, and then..." He died, Sansa knows. She offered her condolences to Margaery when they first met. This war has taken from more than just Sansa and her family. "When he died by some cruel sorcery by Stannis and his red priestess, your mother and I were forced to flee." Brienne looks angry at this, but continues on as she is bid. "We were suspected of killing him ourselves. Without Renly or Stannis agreeing to an alliance with each other or King Robb, your mother wished to return to your brother. I admired your mother," Brienne tells Sansa, heavily. "It was her who urged that we leave Bitterbridge. Without her...I do not doubt I would be dead."

"I miss her," says Sansa, obliquely glad to not be wearing her crown. Queens needed strength, not tears. "I miss her so much."

"Do you still wish..." Brienne trails off, reminding Sansa of what she asked of Harwin and Brienne.

"I do." Her mother deserves rest in the seven heavens with her father, not this mockery of life and honor. "Are you opposed?"

"No, Your Grace," Brienne answers, so sure of Lady Catelyn's character that Sansa is slightly appeased. "She was very pious. This is not a life."

It's a boon, Sansa wants to respond, but doubts claim her voice for a few moments. Is Brienne merely soothing her ego?

"Does it make me a kinslayer?" Sansa has to ask, revealing a fear she's held onto since Ser Ilyn beheaded her father in front of the Great Sept. It was her who went to Cersei and got Lord Eddard arrested; ordering Stoneheart's demise feels so similar, Sansa must question her own intentions. The rest of the realm also thinks of her and Tyrion Lannister as _kingslayers_ , albeit ones pardoned by Oberyn's defeat of the Mountain.

That trial served justice twice. Once for Elia and her children, another for Tyrion and Sansa.

"Your mother has already been slain, my queen," Brienne disagrees, after giving the question some consideration. Sansa may love her for it. Blind obedience made the knights of Kingsguard strike her again and again on Joffrey's behalf. Honest counsel is something to be prized, especially with so much uncertainty lying ahead. _If_ they made it out of the Twins, that is. "That was the Freys, Your Grace. This is...justice, and mercy."

 _Mercy_. Sometimes, it feels as if Sansa is juggling three selves. There's an angry shade of herself that demands vengeance, a stern one with a frosted Northern cadence that orders justice, and a quieter voice that surfaced last in the travels with her column, pleading for mercy with the same desperation that Sansa felt on the pulpit when Father was forced to his knees. No one listened to that one voice when the crowd screamed its support for Joffrey, but stays with Sansa all the same, gentle and kind and true. Ellaria was right all along, as she often seems to be—Sansa does have a gentle heart. It was never lost, Sansa reasons. It was just buried, forced below the skin of a fugitive in all her grief and terror.

"I want to show mercy to the Freys," Sansa admits. "Is that wrong?"

Brienne smiles. "Not at all. I knew you would."

"You did?" Sansa asks, oddly surprised. This is the first time she's confided in Brienne.

"Lady Catelyn always said you had a loving heart," Brienne explains. "Ser Jaime thought you poisoned the king, but I _told_ —"

"I played my part." Sansa assumed much when she accepted Robb's crown. Honesty goes both ways, Sansa long ago decided. If she demanded it of Oberyn, it was only fair of her to act with candor, too. "Ser Dontos gave me a hairnet with poisoned crystals, but I didn't know until later."

"You aren't the first girl in the Seven Kingdoms to be duped, Your Grace. I knew it was not you all along."

Brienne's surety is enough for Sansa to breathe easier. "That makes you the first to believe that in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"This may shock you," Brienne quips, surprising Sansa again, "but I often stand out, Your Grace. I'm well acquainted with the contrary."

"All the better for me," Sansa counters, smiling back. She hasn't disclosed as much as she has with Oberyn or Ellaria—and never will—but this is the start of something. Trust. "There's never been a Queen in the North before." Not a reigning one. She and Brienne can be unique together.

The moment of levity is a brief oasis from all the trouble just ahead, but Sansa embraces it entirely. It may very well be her last.

* * *

"The Water Tower has been taken, Your Grace," Barth declares, after Sansa enters the solar. He's red-faced and breathless, but smiling.

Another burden lifts from her shoulders. "Good work, ser," Sansa tells him, gratefully. She's lucky to have so many sworn to her service. Had Robb been a bad king, Sansa believes that she'd be facing the Freys with only her wits and leal Dornishmen about her. "You have my thanks."

He bows. Exhaustion is plain on his face, but he's undeterred, as is she. "The men are ready to move on at your pleasure, my queen."

It's already dawn, marking the beginning of Warrior's Day. Time is of the essence, Oberyn said only yesterday. They need to act, and soon.

"Keep your men where they are until our signal, ser." A hundred and fifty will remain in the western castle, as she discussed with the captain, while the rest will crowd in the rooms of the Water Tower to wait for Sansa, Oberyn, and the Brotherhood to distract the Frey men with revels.

"What signal, Your Grace?"

"A flaming banner. A _Frey_ banner," she corrects herself. Barth's courtesy wavers when he gives her a brash grin. Sansa doesn't mind. The Freys broke an ancient law when they killed rivermen _and_ northmen. Delivering justice to turncloaks is an obligation, not just a reprisal.

When Barth leaves, Oberyn approaches Sansa from his perch at the window. "Are you ready?" This ploy has more dangers than the last. Lord Walder lost sons and grandsons in either siege, but more reside in the other castle. They will be utterly rancorous with holiday spirit, the prince warned.

Rancorous _and_ rational men are separated from enraged ones by only a hairsbreadth. The riot in King's Landing showed Sansa that much.

"No," Sansa admits, taking his hands in her own. He squeezes hers, soothingly, eyes very soft. Too soft for the bloodshed that's to come, too soft for his reputation, but Sansa likes him best when he's vulnerable. "This is your last chance to leave," she reminds him, smiling mirthlessly this time. Damning her father was one secret she allowed to surface—this is another. If he _does_ wish to leave, her strength won't crumble. It won't be a fatal blow. She can survive without him, without Ellaria. But...it _will_ feel as if she lost her sword hand. Without Ellaria, Sansa will feel as though she's lost the use of her eyes. There was a Commander in the City Watch that some called Ironhand, who fought as bravely in the Blackwater as any other man, sans his right hand. In the stories, Symeon Star-Eyes lost his eyes, but glory was not taken from him. Sansa can do the same. She can succeed without either of them, but the mere thought is still a challenge to overcome, still a monster to outwit, and still a blow that steals her breath—

Oberyn lets go in favor of cupping her face with his hands, and Sansa's wits flee from her.

"Ellaria is fond of saying this, so I will share it with you," he confides, waiting for permission. For what, she doesn't know, but he has it. She nods in answer, as close to him as she was in the corridor, when Brienne looked away and Oberyn promised he was here in the Riverlands with Sansa because he truly wanted to be. Their breaths mingle again, making the anticipation return like the light after evenfall ends. "Whenever I am about to do something foolish, like battle the Mountain"—Sansa smiles— "she tells me, 'do not leave me alone in this world'. And I am to say, 'never'."

 _He isn't going anywhere_ , Sansa has time to think before Oberyn kisses her, and then she's not thinking of anything at all. It's gentler than what she remembers of Joffrey's and the hazy reflection of the Hound's. It makes the room crackle with energy, forcing every nerve come alive like a sudden spark of a bonfire. Oberyn's kiss isn't much like Ellaria's, either, she has a moment to observe before her mind is jumbled by sensation again; here, Oberyn is leading as if they are dancing, and Sansa is following, ever the lady. One of his hands cups the back of her neck, the new touch making her jump a little. The kiss deepens as their lips part; Sansa gasps into his mouth, not alarmed this time—she _likes_ this. Why is he stopping?

"I always drink before a battle," says Oberyn as they draw apart for breath. His eyes gleam like black stars. "But this will be the luck I will need."

"A favor to you, my prince," she manages, good sense returning in small bits. Laughing, he reels her right back in.

* * *

In the wheelhouse, Sansa sits opposite Thoros and Stoneheart as Oberyn settles beside her, knee nudging against hers. He's right, she decides, as Lem and Harwin steer the carriage along the remainder of the bridge from the Water Tower to the eastern Twin. She needed the luck, the courage, the cue; she feels _awake_. She isn't ready to deal with the onset by any means, but it's no longer a surprise. She can anticipate what's to come, and prepare herself for what she will see, hear, and do. _But it wasn't just for luck_ , she has to concede, having expected to feel as if her appetite was satisfied; instead, it feels like she's found a dozen new appetites, half undefined and the rest circling her thoughts back to Oberyn's _mouth_.

Thoros quirks an eyebrow as his gaze leaps from place to place—Oberyn's seamless proximity, Sansa's kiss swollen mouth, the frenetic curl of her fingers. Oberyn's hand rests on his own knee, though one movement from her can interlock their fingers. Sansa would do so, if not for Stoneheart.

Sansa reddens. _It's not as if we were abed_ , she's determined to convey with just her eyes. Thoros only smiles.

"Halt!"

Sansa puts on her stale court smile. Oberyn mimics her, the imitation lacking all the good cheer of last night over the steward's accounts.

The exchange is just like the other.

"What's your business at the Twins?"

"Lord Walder sent for us," she answers, passing over the invitation that Sedgekins authenticated. "His lady enjoyed Maiden's Day, I am to tell him."

The guard sniggers a little, gesturing to the sentries to open the gates. "Why? She isn't one."

Sansa's spared the need to answer as the wheelhouse rumbles on into complete enclosure within the eastern castle. Grooms and servants crowd around in the yard, collecting belongings as their counterparts had. Sansa and Oberyn wander over to the steward, the sight of him making ice suddenly sluice into Sansa's veins. _Lothar Frey_. It can be no other man. He has the weaselly face of Frey and a pair of close-set eyes. Unlike the gentle amiableness of Sedgekins, Lothar has a sharpness to his stare, like Cersei before Sansa's mistakes drew her cruel barbs, like Joffrey before he got a nasty idea. _He's one of them_. She finally has a face to the name that Patrek Mallister gave her near the Red Fork, one of the surviving witnesses to the Red Wedding. _One of the architects_ , she thinks, keeping her face blank and polite. Leaning on a cane, Lothar smiles at them.

"Good morrow, my friends. Be welcome in my lord father's hearth and home."

"We were most grateful for your invitation, m'lord," Oberyn replies, Garin all over again. "You and your family must be eager to make merry."

Lothar chuckles. "The Warrior has not blessed _me_ with martial prowess, but my kin are quite keen to celebrate his day."

"We heard of your great victory in the Reach, milord," Sansa offers, adopting the cant suited to Florys. "Are we entertaining all of your brothers?"

"Not all," Lothar answers, gesturing for them to follow. Brienne follows, playing Ser Galladon again, while the Brotherhood is led away to their new quarters. Harwin gives Sansa a bracing nod before they vanish around a corner. "Hosteen and Aenys have joined Lord Bolton for the long journey north...stop running, Elmar," he orders, catching the sleeve of a squire impatiently. "You'll fall," Lothar calls after the boy as he scampers off.

"Where was I?" The steward asks.

"The North, m'lord," Oberyn prompts, interpreting Sansa's silence as apprehension and taking matters into his own hands. "Hoster, you said?"

"Hosteen and Aenys. My half brothers. I have _many_ of those. You'll entertain brothers, half-brothers, good brothers, and nephews."

They're moving toward the Great Hall, Sansa realizes, forcing one foot in front of the other, again and again. Lord Walder is only a man, one old, sour, evil man, but he's one of them. An architect. He looked upon Robb and Lady Catelyn in their last moments, smugly defying laws given to men by the gods. She returns her attention to Lothar, who's been naming this brother and that brother, content to spill Frey gossip with servants of no consequence. _Every consequence_ , Sansa promises, silently. "Walder...Black Walder, as we call him, will regretfully miss the revels. He has Lord Jason Mallister penned up at Seagard, you see. He hasn't sent a bird to brag, so Lord Jason must be starving by now." Dismissive of Black Walder, Lothar continues, clacking his cane like Lady Olenna. "Symond, Rhaegar, and Jared have sailed to White Harbor before they attend the wedding."

 _Wedding_. Ramsay Snow, the man supposedly to marry Arya. 'Arya' is the supposed part. Sansa's real sister would never marry a Bolton.

"What's in White Harbor?" Sansa asks before she can stop herself. "Fish?" She adds to cover the mistake, playing glib and ignorant.

"Fish," Lothar agrees, amused. He'd do well in anyone's court, Sansa decides, focusing on inanities so she can swallow her anger. He has genial and polite, but his manner cannot conceal his allegiance. "Most certainly, sweetling. Apart from the fish, they're delivering the bones of a Manderly."

"Like the Mander?" Sansa asks, as if she's unfamiliar with Northern lords. Even an acknowledged bastard wouldn't know much of that. Other lords aren't like her father. Bastards are sent away, no matter how fond the lords are of their natural children. The thought makes her miss Jon.

Lothar chuckles, buying into the idea that Sansa is a stupid little girl. Her dear dead Hound would be pleased with her. "Lord Manderly likes to think so. He calls himself its Lord Marshal even now, did you know? He's a right fool for thinking that. The Manderlys were driven out of the Reach by the Peakes during the Century of Blood. That was before the Conquest. They fled to the North with fishy tails between their plump legs."

"Why the North?" Oberyn asks, as the doors to the Great Hall near and near.

Lothar shrugs, scornful. "When the Starks were in power, they took in every useless mouth they could." He dismisses the kindness of Sansa's ancestors with the flick of his finger. Sansa hides one hand behind her back, so no one will see it trembling. _**Useless** mouths_?

"The Starks are gone, aren't they?" Oberyn asks, picking a rumor and running with it. "Ousted after they tried to eat your lord?"

"Oh, for certain, for certain. Lord Bolton's the new Warden of the North, and Emmon has been given Riverrun." The guards stationed at the Great Hall pull open the doors, but Lothar isn't finished. He's like Joffrey in that way—it's best to let him talk himself out. "It's a new century, singer. House Frey has turned a new page." He smiles at them, proud. "Our next betrothal could be to King Tommen's son. One can never know."

"His Grace would be so blessed," Sansa opines with a bland smile, and Lothar kisses her hand in gratitude.

"Come, my friends. Let me introduce you to my father."

The moment she's been waiting for has finally come. Sansa stares up at the lord that unrepentantly sent her mother and brother to their doom. He's as aged and wrinkly as Old Nan, Sansa finds herself thinking, considering the small details instead of the entire picture. Sansa doubts he can walk around on his own, much less hold or swing a sword anymore. Yet his greed shifted the way the war went on, ridding Sansa of the last of her family in one fell swoop. After her father and siblings were gone and Jon went to the Wall, only Robb and Mother remained. The realm blames Jeyne for everything, Sansa has learned, pursing her lips to prevent a senseless cry of rage from getting past her mouth.

 _Everyone blames Jeyne Westerling, when the true culprit, the turncloak, was **you** all along, my lord_.

"Well, well," says Walder Frey, squinting down at Sansa and Oberyn from his black oak chair. "A stinky Dornishman and a ginger whore."

Blood rushes to Sansa's face like an arrow zipping through the air. Oberyn's teeth click together, the only betrayal of his irritation.

"Father!" Lothar squawks, shooting both of them an apologetic glance. "You forget yourself."

Sansa curtsies clumsily, Oberyn bows as low as he can. "We're honored to be here, milord—"

Lord Walder bats at the air like he's beating the words into powder. Sansa stops speaking. "Yes, yes. You'll do. I paid you very well, probably too much on second thought, so I want the best. My sons are _heroes_. They fought the Young Wolf and gave me this pelt." He shows off the skin.

Coldness replaces the embarrassed flush, sweeping over her from head to toe. Sansa _knows_ that pelt.

"There are many wolves around the Trident," Oberyn suggests, hastily. Sansa schools her features into neutrality again, suppressing fury. _That's Grey Wind_ is the only thing Sansa can think, remembering the way Robb's direwolf darted around Winterfell. None of the others ran as fast.

"This is a _direwolf's_ pelt, you buffon. You can't find this sort of thing on the Trident!" He glares at his son. "You gave me a pair of fools, Lothar."

Oberyn puts a hand on the small of Sansa's back while the Freys are distracted, trying to soothe her with a touch. Sansa gives him a grateful look, swallowing bile and terrible anger. _Their time will come_ , she tells herself. Tonight, their time will come. She just has to be patient.

"Mayhaps it's time for your supper, Father," Lothar remarks, gracious as a king. Lord Walder squints at him.

"I can still read the sun, boy. It's only the afternoon. Do you think me as stupid as Jinglebell?"

"Are you sure?" Lothar asks, politely. His father harrumphs.

"No," Lord Walder grumbles. "Fine. Go get my supper," he bellows at the nearest servant. Terrified, the girl flees as fast as her legs can carry her. _This is Joffrey grown up_ , Sansa decides in disgust. Every whim is attended to, every person is someone to torment. Her smile gets strained.

"Return to us in an hour," Lothar advises, unwittingly bestowing a boon on Sansa. She hates feeling indebted to him. "I'll summon the men."

"Thank you, m'lord," Oberyn answers, bowing low and steering Sansa away.

* * *

"Are you well?"

" _No_."

In an empty corridor, Oberyn studies Sansa. The difference in feeling over a matter of hours just makes her feel...faint. This morning, Sansa was kissing Oberyn; this afternoon, she stared down the man who had thousands of northmen and rivermen murdered because he was angry.

"He doesn't regret it," Sansa snaps out, struggling to articulate her anger. It's a directionless haze, a ship without a rudder. "Did you see? _He has Grey Wind's pelt!_ " It wouldn't matter if it was a normal wolf. The Starks wore wolf pelts, bear pelts, and shadowcat pelts. All were welcome in the cold. But this is Grey Wind, the last piece of Robb that Sansa has left, save his crown and kingdom and his wife and her Tully looks. Grey Wind was _slaughtered_ , Sansa fumes, fighting tears. He wasn't just a direwolf. He was like family, like _Lady_. Sansa may not have the bones, but she knows it now, knows it so strongly the conviction will choke her if she lets it—the pelt itself should be buried next to Lady's grave, in the Winterfell lichyard.

"I saw."

"I could—" Sansa doesn't _know_ what she can do. In the Red Keep, she carried a knife in her sleeve when she was scared. Sansa wishes she still had that knife. She's never been violent, but the smugness on Lord Frey's weaselly face makes her want to stuff it straight down his throat. "I could—"

"You could," Oberyn agrees, making her pause in her pacing. She could...what? At her prompting look, Oberyn gives her a small smile. "You could do anything to avenge them, if you only wanted." He puts his hands on either side of her shoulders, stalling her movements. "But you don't."

She _does_. "I do."

"Not yourself." He meets her eyes, steadily. One hand sweeps a thumb below each of her eyes, wiping the tears that she couldn't hold in. "That isn't in your character, Sansa. You have no training. No want. You know this. Your mind is your sword, like Doran. Use it to the best of your ability."

Someday, Sansa will _need_ a sword to punish Lothar and Walder. _The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

Oberyn said the same thing of her before Riverrun, when they spoke of the Mountain and Elia. "I remember," she chokes out.

"You've come all the way here, Sansa. Don't let your anger cloud your judgment."

The fight whistles out of her. Oberyn smiles, though the softness of it shifts into sharpness. Wolfish, Sansa decides as she recovers.

"Best to be patient, my love," the prince urges, the same man that waited decades for the chance to slay Ser Gregor. Sansa's waited a few months, but it isn't the same. Oberyn arranged a trial by combat; Sansa's about to wreak havoc in a castle. "They'll get what's coming to them."

"Patient," Sansa agrees, distantly. They've all been waiting for her retribution to arrive. Sansa just has to remember that. "I can...wait."

"In the meantime," says Oberyn, gravely, "you must stand with me when we perform. Only myself and Brienne have the skills to protect you."

More grateful than she can ever articulate, Sansa just looks at him. The idea of him fighting for her, however, fills her with agitation. It's only natural that the next words slip past her defenses, echoing the paramour both sorely miss. "Don't leave me alone in this world," she tells him.

"Never," Oberyn promises, and tilts her chin up for a kiss.

* * *

Walder Frey's brood comes into the Great Hall in droves. Young, old, thin, wide—Frey men of all kinds barrel into the room.

Lem growls obscenities under his breath, watching the men enter; Tom plucks his woodharp, eternally unruffled; Oberyn pretends to toy with the strings of the lyre, dark eyes scanning the room for threats; Sansa murmurs song lyrics in whispers, recalling songs that men enjoy; Dennett merrily rattles the timbrel, practically oblivious to any worries. Brienne waits in the hallway as she did in the western Twin, glancing at Sansa every now and then. Ser Hyle and Pod lured servants to the celebration all afternoon, while the rest of the Brotherhood waits for the signal.

She has more men between the outlaws and Barth's half of the Piper men. Just enough men. _These_ Freys will fight when the pin drops.

A boy pulls at Sansa's sleeve. "I want 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', singer," he demands, petulant as Shirei and a spitting image of Lord Walder.

Scowling, Lem hits the drum start the song. The men on the benches perk up, crowing and cheering their excitement. Sansa has no voice strong enough to _shout_ the verses, so it falls to her partners to do so. "A BEAR THERE WAS, A BEAR, A BEAR!" Lem hollers, jumping right in.

"ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR!" The Frey men roar back, stomping their feet in tandem.

At the door, the tilt of Brienne's helmet can't hide her annoyance. Sansa just watches the room. Names are lost among the clamor, but she spots Lothar with a man holding a close resemblance to him. A brother or a son, perhaps. Servers dart between the benches, refilling cups and distributing food. On Maiden's Day, girls fast from dawn until dusk; on Warrior's Day, men are free to eat whenever hunger strikes, as if to prepare for their last battle. For some, it will be. After evenfall, these Freys—the ones who survive—will no longer feel safe in their own halls.

 _Good_ , she muses, darkly. _Let them see how it feels to be afraid_.

At the door, Brienne has put her back to Sansa now, blocking entry. A hooded figure waits alongside her, red eyes shining like binary stars.

"Stoneheart," she murmurs to Oberyn, before it's her turn to sing something. He nods in acknowledgement, as if they are talking of nothing of consequence. She continues to observe the room between songs, hearing various names that stir recognition in her mind, enough for to know to avoid looking at one in particular—Ser Theo. The tourney in Father's honor was so long ago, but perhaps Theo Frey will know her if she gets too close. Another face draws Sansa's attention, all due to its uncanny resemblance to Roslin—Ser Perwyn. He is the only man that looks...unhappy. He hasn't eaten one thing on his plate. His eyes are blank, he hardly speaks to his neighbors, and it is as if he cannot hear her voice at all. Sansa prays for him not to intervene when the reckoning comes. She gave her word to Perwyn's sister, and it was her word as a Stark.

"'Iron Lances'," Lord Frey brays, as soon as Sansa has finished and blushed through all of 'The Lusty Lad'. He smiles, missing every tooth.

She complies, picturing cramming a goblet into his ugly face and down his skinny throat.

After Lord Walder's request, others come flooding in.

"'Milady's Supper'!"

One man shouts from the gallery, already drunk and teetering dangerously near the railing. "'The Rains of Castamere'!"

"'Lord Harte Rode Out on a Rainy Day', sweet girl!" Cheers of commiseration join their voices to the man with the suggestion.

His neighbor disagrees. "Nay, belay that! 'A Cask of Ale', instead!"

"I'll have 'The Dornishmen's Wife'," one of Lord Walder's grandsons shouts, earning a round of laughter. He hits the bench. "And you, lass!"

Another swell of mirth rattles about the room, loud as a thunderclap. Sansa stays where she is, but the next time Brienne looks, she nods. The signal. It's long past time. The heckler jumps to his feet. "Come over here, girl. You don't need a Dornishman. I'll take _very_ good care of you."

A string in Oberyn's lyre snaps. "Think no more of my wife, my lord," Oberyn tells him, courtesy so cold it would stop the Wall from melting.

Sansa's new least favorite Frey wags a finger at Oberyn, a sneer on his squirrelly face. "Enough. Send the girl 'ere, you Dornish dog."

Neither Sansa nor Oberyn moves, even as the noise in the room fades away. At the door, Brienne is surrounded by Piper men. They're waiting.

"He asked for your wife, you fool," Lord Walder interjects, loudly, shattering the silence. He looks annoyed. "Or did you not hear?"

Sansa's dread curls into anger. Still, she waits. She needs to be patient. The right juncture has yet to come.

"Are you fond of breaking rules, my lord?" Oberyn asks, grinning like a madman. "First the Starks, and now you demand my wife?"

Lothar stops smiling. Ser Perwyn looks at Sansa. Lord Walder goes purple with rage. The four men make a barrier around Sansa.

"I could have your tongue out for that!" Walder Frey snarls. "You're a guest in my hall!"

The moment arrives. As quickly as it comes, Sansa lets herself _feel_. Restraint folds into a bristling fury. Endurance surrenders to a relentless resentment. Patience is swallowed up by passion, whirling like a typhoon. Sansa Stark falls into the mantle of the Queen in the North. This girl is wolflike, dangerous, grim. She wants to fall upon the Freys like the Winter Wolves fell upon Rhaenyra's greens from the Neck.

But not yet. She has to snap her teeth at them first. Or howl (no, she'll leave that to Bran's shade, and sweet Summer with him).

She draws herself to her fullest height. "I'll have your head off instead, Lord Walder," she assures him, louder, and all hell breaks loose.

* * *

It's worse than the Blackwater, than Riverrun, than the night where she met Stoneheart.

She's never been so near to a fight. The riot of King's Landing was the closest thing Sansa has been to combat, but that was messy. _This_ is messy. While the breaking of Riverrun's siege involved soldiers, some weren't able to fight in their final moments, thanks to the surprise attack. In the Blackwater, every man was ready, some more than others. She listened to their screams from Maegor's and prayed for the Stranger to draw them away as soon as he could. When Sansa met Stoneheart, it felt as if she was the one with a sword in her hand and a mortal wound in her heart, sucking in rattling breaths and hoping death would come quickly. She was frozen as Stoneheart looked at her, unable to grasp what was happening. The ambush of the Freys is a mix of all three, she determines. Some are ready, some are not. Some are frozen.

All are vulnerable.

Oberyn doesn't do much else beyond guarding her, but a few men attempt to slip past the Prince of Dorne to reach her. They don't succeed. Brienne slips into the room and is in the thick of it already, cutting down anyone in her way in a move that looks like music. The Piper men mingle and cross spears, instructed to avoid any children, per Sansa's orders. All of the boys were in the gallery when her signal came down. She watches them hide from her place, grateful none are close enough to a sword. She cannot, however, stop them from seeing the carnage below. _You'll have nightmares_ , she wants to tell them, wishing she can treat them as she would Rickon when he was still a baby. She liked telling Rickon things, playing at wisdom even in her earliest years. _You'll wonder if you could've done something. You'll think it's your fault...but it isn't._

Blood splatters across her cheek, startling Sansa from her reverie in the midst of chaos. One man drew too near to Oberyn and paid the price.

"Yield," Brienne shouts. Some listen. Many don't. The Piper men cut down any fighters, but leave the ones on their knees alive.

Her outlaws have their own losses, to Sansa's dismay. Lem defeats two Haighs before a Paege goes for Lem's eyes; Tom eludes a grievous injury but gets bloodied just the same; Dennett and Likely Luke are run through with kitchen knives; rolling to avoid a collapsing table, Mudge is crushed underfoot. Sansa has seen so much and done so little. _Could I have helped_? She wonders, watching the battle roll on like the mummer show that Joffrey's wedding held. _Mayhaps if the Sand Snakes or their father had taught me anything, but otherwise...no, I could not._

Finally, it's over. The last man standing mumbles out a "yield" and drops his weapon. The Piper men cheer, having lost just a few of their numbers.

Sansa doesn't cheer. She looks for Lord Walder. He's still sitting in his chair, spitting out drivel and demands like sourleaf froth. Lothar had the good—or bad—sense to linger near his father, unwittingly delivering to Sansa the only Frey men of importance she sought to keep alive.

"You—you!" He screeches, when the room is silent save for the groans of the dying. Lord Walder's face shifts dramatically when a figure draws nearer to Sansa. She's very quiet, but Sansa is expecting her. She lowers her hood, drawing horrified gasps from Lothar and his father.

“What do you say, m’lady?" Harwin asks in Lem's place, following the Brotherhood ritual, face bloody but _alive_. "Was he part of it?”

Lothar's silver tongue has deserted him. Lord Walder's eyes are as wide as dinner plates, defying their cloudiness.

Stoneheart nods.

"Winter has come for you, my lords," Sansa tells the room, knowing the moment where recognition settles. "You betrayed my brother."

"He betrayed _us_ ," Lothar snaps, despite his astonishment, despite his ire, but Harwin's glare has him silent again.

"You broke an ancient law," Sansa adds, as if Lothar hadn't spoken. "You'll await my justice."

Still purple with anger, Lord Walder gapes and snarls.

"Captain Barth," says Sansa, beckoning the knight over. Bruised, beaten, but buoyant, Barth obeys. Sansa looks at the cowering survivors, the children in the gallery, the servants that huddle near the exit, Lothar, Lord Walder, Ser Perwyn, Harwin, and finally, Oberyn. All give her strength in some way, others indecision and weakness. That's normal, Sansa decides. If she felt too much of one thing or another, she wouldn't be human.

"Hold the Twins," she orders.

"Yes, Your Grace."

* * *

"This way, Sansa."

Trailing after Harwin with Oberyn at her heels, the group makes its way to the dungeons. The shock of it all has yet to sink in, but Sansa has no doubt it will, perhaps once she is among her column again. Joffrey's death made her laugh and cry, made her grateful he finally died and pity him for how it happened. This war has flipped the world on its head, forcing the unimaginable to occur. Losing her direwolf, losing parents, losing her siblings, losing her home. Gaining new friends, gaining a new family. Gaining a crown. Feeling so strongly and so little. Thinking so highly of two people, in her head and her heart, but unable to say so. Sansa draws the pelt of Grey Wind closer around her shoulders, and walks on.

The dungeons are individual cells, all with just bars to separate guards from prisoners. Thirty men in one room, she realizes, wrinkling her nose.

"About bloody time for supper," one man bellows, the frost in his accent so strong it slows Sansa's steps, but rallies her. "We heard a—"

"My lady?" Another man gasps, forcing the cramped assembly of rivermen and northmen to their feet. " _You're_..."

"My name is Sansa," she informs them, eyeing the tallest man's approach to the bars. An Umber, she has no doubt. "Sansa of House Stark."

"The king's sister?" The tall man demands over the noises of surprise, delight, and support. "Ned's girl?"

"One and the same, Lord Umber," Harwin assures him, brandishing the keys to the cells. "The Queen in the North."

The room is silent, unable or unwilling to believe Harwin, until a man in a faded Piper surcoat finds his tongue. "You came here for us?"

 _Marq_ , Sansa realizes in relief. "I did. The Twins are now mine." And she didn't need to wait until winter was over for that, as she expected in Riverrun. Sansa had committed herself to taking care of her people until the Brotherhood left her no option but to participate.

Useless mouths, Lothar had said. _No_ , she reflects. _Vassals. My people. Robb's people. The North and the Riverlands. My subjects._

"Why did you come, girl?" The Greatjon asks. He's gruff, but she sees a chance to bring any recalcitrants like him to heel. "The war is over."

 _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ , Father once explained. _Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths._

She gives him the only answer that makes sense. The reason she fled King's Landing, the dream she's held onto since her father's death.

"To go home, my lord," Sansa explains. "Winterfell is in Roose Bolton's hands. My birthright has been stolen from me. We need to get it back."

 _Home, my lady. To Winterfell_ , Ser Dontos had said. _We'll take care of her_ , Gwen of the Greenblood insisted. _We're bringing her home._ _Winterfell, Sansa_ , Harwin pleaded. _Remember?_ Even Oberyn cast in some words. _I swore to bring you all the way to Winterfell, not to some hollow hill very much unsuited for a queen._ It's all been building to this, she knows. Winterfell is the end of the road. A safe haven. Home, at long last. 

__

There's a long silence, until the Greatjon breaks it with a gale of laughter. Sansa stares him down, calling on the shade of Grey Wind for strength.

__

"Aye, Your Grace," Jon Umber declares when the mirth subsides, voice booming like thunder. The other men start grinning. "For Winterfell."

__

"For you," Marq Piper adds, and Sansa smiles.


	16. Chapter 16

She has no plans to linger long in the Twins, but a number of problems jump from the shadows, delaying Sansa yet again.

Wearily, she gets to work.

The men who survived or yielded are escorted to their own dungeons. The boys that were fetched from the gallery—some shy of manhood, others on the cusp, and still more in the middle—are left in the care of nursemaids, with Captain Barth's watchful presence never far from their quarters. Sansa studies the group again before she leaves them, trying to quell the nausea that has trailed after her since the attack. Few of the boys are deeply frightened, she notices, disturbed. A good number of them instead whisper with eagerness of their new places in the line of succession. _Have you no shame?_ Sansa longs to ask them all, remembering the drawing of the curtains in her bedchamber in the Red Keep, when she was so sick with grief after Father died that she could not stand even the sunlight. _Those were your uncles, your fathers, your grandfather..._

Thinking of these fallen men, Sansa sends a raven to the Eagle Sept to fetch the Silent Sisters. In the interim, she orders the maester—an amiable man, she grants, despite the overthrow of his lord and sharp eyes of the guards on his movements—to attend to the wounded and the dead.

"They paid little respect to ours," the Greatjon grumbles, after the northmen scarf down rations and confer with Sansa in the solar.

"We are not Freys, my lord," Sansa reminds him, and somehow that is enough. Their eyes observe, assess, and judge, following her with an intensity that the rivermen lack. They are not like Harwin, or Ellaria and Oberyn, or the Dornish column, or even Ser Brynden and Edmure, she realizes. None of the captives have seen Sansa rise to Queen in the North—they only see the end result, the survivor of everything and all that has come before.

"Your Grace?" Pod prompts, peering into the room but looking at nothing but his own boots. Sansa answers the summons, promising to return to the northmen shortly (or so she believes, as exhaustion spins her words into a jumbling mess and her mind into a fog). Pod sends Sansa off to the infirmary, Brienne at her heels. Oberyn has hidden an injury from her, she learns, and slipped away to Maester Brennett at the first chance.

She finds him feverish, drowsing, and sprawled in an ungainly heap on a cot. Recumbent, Oberyn offers a smile at the sight of her in the threshold. She finds a seat at his bedside, worries making every inch until she's next to him feel like leagues. Fear made flesh rests before her, formed in the shape of a Dornishman with a heart that still beats merrily on below her fingers as she places them on his chest, splaying them like she did in the hollow hill, when he told her the story of Garin and the fall of Chroyane. She can't lose him. She's seen too much, lost too much. She can't lose him before she says...before she says what she wants him to know, wants them to know.

That can't be fretted over any longer. It's a fact, Sansa knows, unquestionable as the blue of her eyes or the Stark blood in her veins.

"What have you done, my prince?" She murmurs, feeling hunger and fear gnaw at her belly like a pair of greedy rats. She strokes a finger along Oberyn's cheek and beard, too tired to mentally wring her hands about her own propriety with the prince. She _loves_ him. It cannot be helped.

"Nothing," Oberyn denies, leaning into her touch, only to relent as she glares down at the dressings on his shoulder. "Someone got too close."

She can't remember much of the slaughter, perhaps for her own good. She's seen enough, but Sansa searches for the moment anyway. "The blood," she says with distant recognition. There was no doubt that it remained, making Sansa wonder why if northern lords were cruel or polite for not saying anything. "It splattered."

"You looked very much like a wolf last night," the prince offers, eyes slightly glassy. "It amused me."

"You have a poor sense of humor, Oberyn." Sansa removes her hand from his cheek, just to slide it down to his chest again. "Can you ride?"

He groans at the thought, its motion a hum under her fingers. A blush blooms on her cheeks. "If you hold the reins, Your Grace," Oberyn sighs out.

"Ellaria will be furious if you die," Sansa warns, forgoing bravery again. "Obara and Nym with her, my prince. And I will be cross," she adds.

Color returns to his face, if only a little. "I will not," Oberyn promises, and she kisses him for it. She draws back, smiling despite herself.

"Is that milk of the poppy?" She knows the taste. It gives her dreams, usually, filling her mind with odd trifles of thought.

He blinks, lazily, licking his lips. "A small dose," he admits, slurring a little, more undignified than Sansa has seen before. "For the pain."

"Are you in pain?"

He gives her a sleepy smile, almost a smirk, forcing heat from her cheeks to her belly, then lower still. "With a queen at my beside? No."

Sansa has so left much to do, but still she lingers, preferring his company. "Sleep well," she tells him, softly, and Oberyn closes his eyes.

* * *

Harwin finds her in the corridor, looking sadder than she has ever seen him. Lem, Dennett, Mudge, and Likely Luke passed on to await the Stranger's judgment, but Tom and Thoros remain. Without the smallfolk occupying the hollow hill, their merry band made of Harwin's sworn brothers is smaller than ever. They aren't the only ones lost to her on the road. The Stranger stole Tristifer Toland, Ben Gargalen, the two spearmen that fought with Joss Hood from her weeks ago in the attack of Riverrun.

She's about to lose another.

"Where is she?" Sansa asks when Harwin offers an arm. Brienne follows.

"With Thoros."

Sansa dreads the moment so strongly, she has to retch in an unused solar and pray for a relief that will never come. She drinks the water that Brienne hands over, and rejoins them in the hallway, trying to quell the angry, anxious nerves that claw eagerly and relentlessly at her insides.

"You don't need to see this, Sansa," Harwin murmurs.

"I do." Sansa can't find a reason _why_ she must, but her expression must convince Harwin, as he falls silent.

Thoros is listening to Stoneheart's hissed anger when the three of them arrive in the storeroom. He gives Sansa a grim look.

"She wants to know why the other men won't be hanged."

"They yielded, my lady," Sansa answers, thinking of all the boys and girls who will still have parents by nightfall. Stoneheart snaps out a reply.

" _Our_ people yielded," Thoros translates, sounding weary. Harwin seems similarly exhausted. Sansa understands. "That did not save them."

"We avenged them," argues Sansa, as sickness roils in her gut anew, threatening to spill out of her mouth again. _Did we_? Sansa has to wonder, plagued with doubts even now. _Is Robb finally at peace? Are **you**_? Vengeance does not feel as good as she expected it to, as she wanted it to. The Hound once insisted killing was the epitome of sweetness; Oberyn balanced a desire to seek justice for Elia with a savage rage at the thought of the Mountain walking around without punishment. _Killing Gregor Clegane doesn't erase Elia's absence, Lady Sansa_. She's pursued vengeance since Ser Dontos took her away from Joffrey's wedding in one form or another, but disappointment exudes out of her rather than satisfaction. She found what she was looking for, and it just makes Sansa feel...exhausted. This was _her_ idea, yet summoning the next words is like dredging Blackwater Bay while it's still ablaze with wildfire. In the hollow hill when she met Lady Stoneheart, the thing that carried Catelyn Stark's memories but not her personality, Sansa knew its life was a mistake. It's wrong. It has no place in Winterfell, no place in her court, no place in her life or future.

"Lord Walder and Lothar will be duly punished." By the sword, she decided, wanting to deliver a punishment as her father would've. She thinks of him now, unable to look away from the thing that was his wife. She isn't swinging the sword, but the sentence is hers. She can't look away.

Stoneheart presses scarred fingers to her own throat, furious.

"Hang them," Thoros repeats, the reluctant interpreter. He moves away from Stoneheart. Sansa nods to Harwin, but doesn't draw her gaze away. Beneath the red eyes, mottled skin, and wispy hair, the shade of Catelyn Stark seeks peace. Sansa believes that. She won't delay it any longer.

 _This is mercy_ , Sansa longs to say, wishes the shade would hear her pleading. None ever deign to hear Sansa's pleading.

Harwin produces a Valyrian steel dagger, and it's over before Sansa has a moment to breathe out again.

"Bring her to the maester," Sansa manages. With no spark of life left, this is the body of her mother again. It deserves respect. "Please."

"What will you do with...?" Thoros trails off, quickly stripping his cloak from his shoulders to draw over Lady Catelyn.

Sansa hesitates, truly at a loss. Mother never discussed such a thing with her, nor Father. There was never a need, never a moment to wonder about what was to come in a future supposedly far flung from Sansa's youth and summerlike dreams of marriage—none of her family knew what awaited them in the south, not even Sansa. Robb and Father lost their heads, Mother lost her mortal coil, Arya vanished into the ether, and Bran and Rickon, the only ones to stay in Winterfell, were put to the sword. Sansa lost _herself_ , regaining nearly all her pieces on the road with the Dornish.

"If I may, Your Grace?" Brienne interrupts, voice soft. "I cannot speak for your mother, but...perhaps she would like to rest with her father."

"Her father?" Sansa can't recall what House Tully does for funerals. The room seems too _small_ , suddenly, much like her windpipe. Sansa puts a hand on her throat like Stoneheart did, working to regain her composure. _Pause if you must, my love_ , Lady Catelyn assured her, while Sansa practiced her courtesies and her curtsies. At four, her manners were honed like Robb's skill with a sword was not—it was Sansa's greatest pride. _Breathe_ , her mother laughed, when Sansa's brow furrowed in concentration, astonished that she ran out of air to speak or sing. _The words will come._

Sansa pauses, waits. Brienne continues.

"Your mother's family inter their dead into the rivers, Your Grace, within a burning boat."

"She will not..." Sansa considers, stowing the grief away. She cannot let it overwhelm her before she's within the walls of her home, safe and free from the south's choking scrutiny. When she returns home, she can finally collapse. "She did not want to rest with...with my father?" _The crypts..._

"That was not her place, Sansa," Harwin reminds her, eyes softening. His hand on her arm is a buoy. "She grew up a Tully. They are a different folk."

The next pause is a lengthy one, weighed down by ghosts. They do not mind. "Bring my mother to the maester, please." Desperate for the prince to lift her spirits, Sansa moves to the door. "We'll send her to Edmure from Seagard," she gets out, eyes burning, and hastens on her way.

* * *

When it is time to leave, Sansa returns to Oberyn. The prince is awake, but groggy.

She bustles about the room to distract herself as she waits for Oberyn to dress, fighting sickness and tiredness and aches of all kinds. Her chest feels so tight that her ribs could snap like twigs. Sansa breathes out, but it's no use. Nothing stops the mind's pains. She saw the way her father's head rolled, the way her mother's corpse shivered when the steel met vulnerable flesh, imagined Bran and Rickon and the Winterfell household hurting under Theon's hands, suffered nightmares of what Arya and Jeyne and Robb and her Dornishmen went through before they died—it never ends. _Never_. She'll never forget this day, or that fateful day in King's Landing when she screamed herself hoarse and still, no one bothered to listen.

"Are you well?"

"No," she admits, and he tilts her chin up so she must meet his gaze. Grief makes her the unsteady one, the ill one, the cold one. He just burns, she estimates. A sun fit to explode, if pushed far enough. She's ice, he's fire, and Ellaria is...the earth and everything in the middle, a perfect harmony.

"What can I do?" asks Oberyn.

"Don't die," Sansa insists, and the kiss between them nearly slows the world to a stop. He drops another to her forehead, eyes gentle.

"That's not how it goes."

It's inane enough to make her smile, albeit grudgingly. "I forgot the words."

"Ellaria will remind us," Oberyn assures her, a hint of worry in his voice. He strokes a thumb along her jawline. "When must we go?"

"Now," Sansa answers, conjuring a smile for him from of days long past. Oberyn is not deceived. They abandon the infirmary and descend the stairs of the eastern castle, joining the retinue in the yard after a storm has begun. Snowflakes flutter and fall, coating Sansa's hair and cloak in white.

A small escort awaits Sansa on the bridge, guarding a baggage train of prizes and spoils of war. There are wayns of food, carts of coin, Lothar and Walder Frey, chained and shaking on an open litter. A covered wagon bearing their dead brings up the rear. Sansa is loath to leave her people in such a cursed place. She has Grey Wind's pelt on her shoulders but...no Robb. There isn't a trace of him in the castles. One of her new captives confessed the truth—many of the victims of the Red Wedding were thrown into the Green Fork, never to be seen again. They took great pleasure doing that to a king, she learns. With a heavy heart, Sansa knows she must leave without his bones.

 _Bad tidings_ , Sansa reminds herself, searching for a calm that will get her through the day. _I am used to bad tidings_.

The northmen and rivermen are content to walk the rest of the way to Seagard ( _to stretch our legs, my queen_ , Marq Piper offers, holding a bloody Stark banner that was discovered in one of the storerooms, to serve as Sansa's standard-bearer), but the Greatjon offers Sansa a horse, gruffly insistent she must ride it. Sansa climbs into the saddle, and pulls Oberyn up with her. He settles behind Sansa, snowflakes collecting in his hair.

They start the march across the bridge, passing the Water Tower and pausing at the second castle for only a single passenger—Roslin.

"Your Grace," she murmurs when she arrives, shadowed by Brienne. She's gently hoisted onto a wayn by Kirth Vance, about as far away from her father as she can get. Sansa watches the northmen for any hint of disgust or disloyalty, but she sees nothing but blank courtesy. _Good_.

A silent Ser Perwyn—the only Frey not shackled—joins Roslin, prompting a tearful smile in greeting from his sister. His answering smile is small, but present. He yielded immediately when the battle began, and Sansa's men acted accordingly. Sansa wonders if he resents her for everything. Sansa would even guess that there is hate in Perwyn's heart. She finds that she does not want to know.

"My lady," Sansa replies, and the march continues for the rest of the way in a weary, despondent silence.

* * *

Seagard's towers draw her eyes first, the novelty of a new castle to admire and explore all but irresistible.

Sloping up from the sea, the keep has bluish stones and overlooks Ironman's Bay. Below the castle, a town is shielded by high walls like Winterfell's. A host sits before the walls, with Stark banners fluttering in the wind in all directions and cookfires littering every available inch of space. In spite of everything, the sight heartens Sansa, filling her with an affectionate pride. The smallfolk from the hollow hill and Riverlander soldiers mingle among one another, sharing japes and stories over supper. She even sees her Dornish column interspersed in the crowd, an integral piece of it all.

"Seven hells," Marq Piper enthuses, as the group slows its progress. Ruddy and gaunt, he's still cheerful. "Her Grace has been busy."

"Very," agrees Smalljon Umber, sounding impressed. His father snorts in answer, a giant alongside her even as Sansa sits ahorse.

A freerider gallops out to meet the party, only to nearly tumble off his mount as soon as he sees just who breaches the border.

"Your Grace!" He squeaks, earning Oberyn's quiet, tired laugh in Sansa's ear. "You...we've been...you're _back_!"

"I am," Sansa agrees, lacking the resolve to be witty or insightful at the moment. Oberyn's weight against her is an intoxicating thing, but Sansa won't be distracted. He needs rest. So does she. So do the northmen, the remaining men of the Brotherhood, Brienne, even Pod. Sansa cannot remember a stretch of days that has felt quite as long as the last several in the hollow hill and beyond. "Inform my court, please." There is no better way to describe the lords, her Dornishmen, and her ladies, each drawn to Sansa's cause from many corners of Westeros. It gladdens her, even lifting the cloud of worry that has pursued relentlessly her from the Twins.

Almost.

Heads begin to turn as they meander forward, the freerider cantering excitedly ahead to herald the arrival of the Queen in the North. Shouts of recognition and delight greet Sansa, the Umbers, and Marq. Sansa watches the gap between herself and the strange assortment of those near and dear to her shrink, identifying faces as she gets closer. Obara and Nym, following Oberyn's progress atop the horse with wide eyes; Dontos waving and jumping up and down; Jeyne and Rollam Westerling, shocked and paler than the moon; Lords Piper, Smallwood, Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, Roote, and Paege, inspecting the group with astonishment; Sers Daemon and Ulwyck comically frozen in place; Joss, Dickon, Deziel, Qoren and Maester Cedrik, agape. Ser Brynden seems to be glaring; Gwen and Ellaria, wearing nigh identical expressions of anger and relief.

 _All is not well_ , Sansa notes, fighting the urge to drop as she commits just who is angry to memory. _I'll see to that later._

"Your Grace," an unfamiliar lord ventures after no one else dares to speak. _Jason Mallister_ , she realizes, noticing Ser Patrek at his side.

"Lord Jason," she replies, politely, accepting a groom's hand of help to get down from the horse. She lifts her borrowed skirts to keep them from the mud, waiting for Oberyn to join her. With a slight sway on his feet, he follows. Sansa intertwines her arm with his, matching the prince's pace.

"How did..." Lord Jason seems at a loss as she approaches, with Oberyn at her side.

Sansa has to wonder what the camp sees, belatedly realizing it has gone quiet save for the crackle of dozens of fires. The torn direwolf banner in Marq's hands? Sansa herself, dressed in a stranger's gown and bloody? The northmen? The Freys? Roslin? Had she been on the opposite side, Sansa has no doubt words would be hard to come by for her, too. She watches Lord Jason, too exhausted to don more than a scrap of her lady's armor.

The Greatjon booms a laugh at him, prompting scattered, nervous giggles from their audience.

"Lord Umber," Sansa says, hoarsely, unable to give the answer that all seem to be waiting for. A demonstration is better. "Bring the prisoners."

"Let go of—unhand me!" Walder Frey shrieks as the Greatjon kicks him headfirst into the snow. Lothar joins his father, meek as a fawn.

"Ah," says Lord Jason. The rivermen and northmen wear identical grins. Clement Piper's delight is plain—Marq is safe, just as Sansa promised.

"We've come a long way, my lord," Sansa tells him, ignoring Ser Brynden's ire in the distance. "Rest and refreshment would be quite welcome."

Lord Jason laughs, a little wonderingly. "Be welcome at my hearth and in my home, Your Grace."

"The Queen in the North!" the Greatjon bellows, loud enough for the entire camp to hear (such is an easy feat for Lord Umber, Sansa muses).

_"The Queen in the North!"_

One side shouts the words, boys and men and girls and the smattering of women. Another side of the host adds its voice to the other, until before long, the entire camp is roaring the words, roaring for _her_ like hundreds of wolves in one pack. Sansa is lightheaded, yet also comforted, feeling that bubble of affectionate pride returning anew to warm her up. This people are hers—she will do right by them, as the Starks have always done.

 _Maybe_ , Sansa reflects, breathing life into that sad girl in the bygone days of the Red Keep, surviving Cersei, surviving Joffrey, clinging to the last vestiges of hope, and waiting for the counterpart Dontos to whisk her away and into the arms of Ellaria and Oberyn, _they will even love me_.

In the frosted cant of the Last Hearth, the Greatjon booms like thunder for the final call...

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

...and Sansa has to smile.

* * *

"That will be all," she says, dismissing the Mallister maids with a polite nod. Smiling, then curtsying, the pair departs, arms laden with linen.

Lord Jason gave Sansa the finest guest rooms in the castle, second only to his own. After she (eagerly) bathes, dresses in a nightgown sewn just for her, and puts her hair into a single plait down her back, Sansa elects to explore her chambers before she succumbs to sleep. The rooms are just as lovely as Riverrun, far nicer than the Twins, and almost as revitalizing as the familiar ones of Winterfell will be. After spending more than a week in the wintery elements in the company the outlaws, fighting the cold by way of Oberyn's warmth at her side, Sansa permits herself to enjoy the small pleasures of a roaring hearth, a bowl of strawberries, and a finely stitched robe. Just as she's belting the robe, someone knocks on the door.

"Your Grace," says Brienne, somehow looking far better rested than Sansa, "Prince Oberyn and Lady Ellaria wish to see you."

"I'm no lady," Ellaria chides, storming past Brienne in a huff.

Sansa dismisses Brienne with a confused nod, who obediently leaves the three of them alone to stand sentry outside. Sansa permits herself in the brief silence to take in Ellaria with her eyes. They were separated for only a short time, but it feels like it was centuries. She looks from the long wave of curls down Ellaria's back, to the burning heat of her gaze, and elsewhere, devouring all the features that she's come to love. How could she _not_? This woman was among the unconventional cadre of true knights Sansa found since she left Winterfell, looking like none of the ones she expected to see in her childhood and naiveté. It isn't just her beauty that kept Sansa's eye—it was _everything_.

 _But...she was angry_. Sansa watches Ellaria pace about with concern, as Oberyn silently eases himself into an armchair.

"What's the matter?" Sansa asks, worriedly.

"She would not say," Oberyn answers, mildly, "until the three of us could meet. Though...I have some idea." He winces in sympathy.

"Of course you do," says Ellaria, scowling at him. In spite of the fire blazing at the hearth, a coldness slips into the room. Sansa meets it wearily and warily, more tired than she can bear. "You, however," Ellaria adds, snapping the words in Sansa's direction like a spear, "do not."

 _I wanted to rest_ , Sansa silently laments, desperate for it. Her head pounds like a drum as she strives to connect one clue to the next, to no avail.

She swallows. "Pardon?"

 _All is not well_ , a small part of Sansa reminds its larger self, smug and unkind. _You already knew that. Later is **now**._

"You left!" Ellaria explodes, gaze so black and deep that Sansa must give herself a moment to pause, collect her thoughts, her lust, and consider what has been said. _Left?_ Ellaria does not give Sansa a chance to process. "Did you even consider your actions beforehand, _Your Grace?_ "

"My..." Sansa thinks back, sluggish. She _left_...left the camp. The same camp that went to relieve Seagard from Black Walder's clutches, filled out by the column and the assortment of rivermen that swore to her in Riverrun. She remembers the moment where it happened. _Now, Sansa. They aren't far, truly_ , Harwin said, having sought her out so she could meet the Brotherhood and its then mysterious lady. In that moment, Sansa felt the sojourn would be harmless. She had Oberyn with her, plenty of allies in the immediate vicinity, and a clear path to Winterfell. In hindsight, however...perhaps she should've known, or simply looked closer. Harwin changed since Winterfell, like Sansa did; she must've missed the signs.

"I left," she confirms, unhappily, trapped in a bed of her own making. She has to lie in it.

"I would've forgiven you for leaving," Ellaria presses, hotly, "but you never sent word."

The mistake is another should-have-known, another opportunity to indulge in self pity. Geremy pocketed a missive to deliver to Ser Brynden if she failed against the Freys, but sending a bird with updates of her plan...no. _Could I have avoided this_? Sansa wonders, miserable. _**Yes**_.

"Some said you eloped," Ellaria continues, shaking her head in anger. Oberyn studies the brazier, a frown on his lips. Sansa cannot draw her eyes from Ellaria even if she wanted to. Something between them is crumbling, eroding under a heavy strain. _No_ , Sansa wants to sob. _Please, don't._ "I defended you. I knew it was not so. But you left, without any word, and your precious lords looked down on us as soon as you were gone."

"They did _what_?" Sansa yelps, indignantly, just as Oberyn demands with a whirl and a stare, " _excuse_ me?"

It'd be a funny little jape, were Ellaria not angry at both of them. "Dornishmen aren't welcome past the Boneway, or have you forgotten?"

His look could cool wildfire. _I've never seen them angry at one another_ , Sansa realizes. _Ellaria has never been angry at me, either._

"I forget nothing."

"Forgive me, I misspoke," Ellaria snarls, switching fronts in a war that Sansa hates to be in. She's yet to see a flaw in Ellaria's arguments, nor a fault in her anger. Sansa has done her a great wrong, mayhaps Oberyn as well. "Dornish _bastards_ are not looked kindly upon past the Boneway!"

"I was helping—!" He breaks off, annoyed and helpless and fatigued as she is. "Sansa needed my help, Ellaria. I did not know that the men would..."

"You do _know_! You always have." Ellaria is fuming. Her gaze is so defeated that it steals Sansa's breath. "Your lords are not as good as you seem to think they are, Your Grace." The courtesy only makes Sansa flinch. The distance from Ellaria has grown even wider, stretching all the more as the regard of Sansa plummets. It was just some months ago that they were flirting in the Red Fork. Sansa misses that informality, that careless fun that vanished around the same time that her crown appeared. "Only Ser Brynden's return helped us. I fear we and Lady Jeyne would've been sent away."

Horrified, Sansa forces the words out, throat tightening like an unruly vise. "Ellaria, I'm—"

" _Sorry?_ " Ellaria scoffs, turning away. "Oh, I'm sure you are."

 _Sorry to offend_ , Sansa regretfully concedes, _but less sorry to have accomplished so much..._ which Ellaria understands.

"Ellaria," Oberyn mutters, but chagrin and shame has set into his features, making him resemble a weathered statue bent back with the brunt of age. Sansa sees a glimmer of tears in Ellaria's eyes and bites her tongue, quelling the platitudes and pleas that are surely unwelcome.

"You left without a goodbye," she accuses, fiercer and sadder. Sansa feels as though her heart is breaking in half. "What if you had _died_?"

"We didn't," the prince murmurs, looking as if he wishes to draw her into his arms. Sansa wishes the same. She'd even...leave, to give them privacy.

"You could have, and we would have never known. Obara almost left a dozen times to find you, Oberyn, in a land she has no knowledge of. _In winter_. Nymeria barely spoke to anyone." Ellaria's dual pronged attack has yet to let up. Sansa's progress in the field wilts against this adversary.

"Should I have left Sansa to rot in the Twins?"

" _No_! You should've sent word, and _we_ would've _helped_ her!"

"The Freys are not _that_ stupid, Ellaria!"

Toying with the sleeve of her new robe, Sansa watches the volleys go back and forth between the lovers in glum silence. She should've known better. How many times did she pray for rescue in the Red Keep, writing letters that were never delivered? The only letter that mattered was the one that Cersei monitored, and still, Robb never came even after the raven reached Winterfell. News of her family fell to hearsay and court gossip, often making Sansa the last to know anything and the first to suffer when the knowledge spread. _It was unfair and...unkind_ , she realizes, thinking achingly of Ellaria's loyalty, Ellaria's care, Ellaria's patience, _to withhold so much. I of all people should've known better..._

"...foolish," Ellaria is saying when Sansa returns her attention the pair. "Vengeance has blinded both of you."

"Do not speak to me of vengeance!" Oberyn snaps back, face very white. His injury is hurting him, Sansa sees, but he ignores it. "Elia was long due."

"You fought _one_ man, Oberyn! Look at her!" Ellaria shouts, flinging an arm in Sansa's direction. "You should've fled the outlaws immediately. Instead, you let her march into those castles with only twenty unwashed men at her back! By all accounts, the Freys had more than a hundred!"

"He didn't let me," Sansa has to intercede, dully. All of her feels heavy and rickety, like a run down shack. "I went anyway. I would've gone alone."

"To what end?" Ellaria demands, irate and stricken. "I thought you wanted to go to Winterfell, Sansa. That was what _you_ told me."

The understanding dawns on her very slowly, but it does dawn. _Justice and vengeance_ , Oberyn said, from Harroway to the Twins, until it became Sansa's own mantra. Had he not spoke of it with Ellaria? Sansa always assumed they were two halves of one person, but perhaps not. He has his secrets, then his confidences seemingly shared only with Sansa. He drew her aside from the camp in Harroway, Sansa remembers, thinking of their walks. Then, their conferences in Riverrun—all sans Ellaria, all advice and warnings on queenship interposed with suggestions against the Freys and the Lannisters. _He promised not to lie to **me**_ , Sansa knows, _but withholding certain truths from his paramour is...not quite the same, is it?_

Maybe she would've gone to Winterfell, if the Brotherhood hadn't dangled a temptation too strong to resist. It came with a steep cost, nevertheless.

Sansa can not feel more miserable than she is now. It just isn't possible. "I do," she admits. "But..." Sansa draws in a breath, searching for a calm and rest that continues to elude her. "I had to think of everyone," she explains, pressing her fingers to her temples in an attempt to alleviate the headache. When did she sit down at the table? She doesn't know. She doesn't know _enough_. "There were smallfolk in the hollow hill about to freeze and starve and my northmen in the dungeons. The rivermen needed my help, too." She was the one the camp circled around. _My absence put the factions into disarray_ , Sansa reflects. Yet it was her duty to uphold the law, to fetch the architects of the Red Wedding and deliver a sentence that they owe her kingdom. "I cannot think of only myself anymore. The Freys broke a vow to my brother, and they needed to be p—"

"That couldn't _wait_?"

She doesn't know all of Dorne. They do not know the North. "I couldn't leave my people in the cold, Ellaria. Winter has come." Robb's cup, all its responsibilities, all its accountability, and the seat of Winterfell has passed to Sansa. She can no longer be selfish and seek _just_ the home she lost—many have lost homes, lost families, lost everything. She has to take care of them. "Ransoming to Robb's murderers in spring will not serve."

Ellaria is unmoved, flushed, and angry. Sansa feels ill, pale as snow, and guilty, but she, too, is undeterred. Sansa meets that lovely gaze, wishing it this went differently. The prince sits in the middle like a ghost, claiming a part in Sansa's war but unable to address the impasse. With a sigh, Ellaria moves toward the door. They've made no headway, Sansa realizes. It _is_ an impasse. Oberyn's eyes trail somberly after his paramour.

"Ser Brynden wishes to see you," Ellaria manages, eyes downcast. _Half mad_ , she once proudly claimed. To Sansa's dismay, Ellaria seems simply dejected. Sansa longs to see her smile again. "Perhaps...he will make you understand." With that she leaves, pulling the door shut after her.

"That went well," Oberyn opines, moving to rest on a low divan. Nearing sleep, he seems younger, more vulnerable.

Still at the table, Sansa sighs. "Why did you lie to her?" She asks, drowsy. They make an undignified pair, but she can't bring herself to care.

He hums a low note not unalike a dirge. "I...deceived."

"You lied," Sansa corrects, a little impatiently. His tendency for wordplay and Ellaria's preference for honesty have struck again.

The prince sounds sad. "She...disapproves of revenge. She does not understand its necessity." _My prince slew the Mountain That Rides. Show some respect_ , Ellaria had told Tom in the days before the Riverrun ploy. Sansa doubts she'd feel the same way if Oberyn had died there instead.

"We frightened her."

"This is a war," Oberyn says, quieter. She wonders if he thinks of the Mountain, when he was scared and brave and accompanied by only Obara and Nymeria in King's Landing, as well with a small retinue, while his beloved paramour disappeared into a lawless wasteland with a fugitive. "It was unavoidable." She thinks of his indecision, his terror of being lost in the Twins while Ellaria and his eight girls remained unaware. She also remembers the next day when he returned to the hollow hill, stubbornly committed to his pledge to her cause and Sansa's own protection. Both of them made choices away from and without Ellaria, gaining much ground in the short term but little in the long term. _Don't play a game you cannot win_ , he had said, only to come back to Sansa in at her most desperate hour. He is a contradiction. She is a contradiction. Ellaria is not.

"It wasn't," Sansa mumbles. If she does not move now, she'll doze off in this chair. "There was an opportunity with Geremy, and I squandered it."

"We must be better," Oberyn decides, almost inaudibly, electing for a simple goal in the face of unanswerable questions, "in all the wars to come."

 _We will_ , Sansa promises, willing the words to reach Ellaria in her anger, her grief, and her pain, and finally shuts her eyes.

* * *

"Your Grace?" Brienne calls, her voice sounding as far away as the Wall.

Sansa jerks awake at the table. "Ow," she grumbles, wincing at the crick in her neck and wiping her mouth with her fingers. "Yes?"

"Ser Brynden would like to speak with you."

 _Another ordeal_.

Sansa glances around her rooms. Oberyn has vanished, but the sun has appeared, streaming through a gap in the curtains. _How long did I sleep?_ She tightens the robe's belt around her bedclothes, remembering her great uncle's anger yesterday. She doubts he will wait long for her. "Enter."

Adorned in black armor and a frown, Ser Brynden arrives in stony silence. He sets her crown before her, not quite slamming it down.

"Thank you," Sansa ventures, beating awkwardness back with politeness. She's faced worse than a cranky Blackfish. "Arron gave it to you?"

"He did. The boy wept, you know," Ser Brynden answers, displeasure consuming all courtesy. "He was convinced you _died_ , Sansa."

Sansa braces herself for the haranguing, weary. He softens a fraction, approaching to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"I feared you lost. We all did. It was very cruel of you to vanish without a word."

 _Cruel?_ She wants to beseech him, truly stung. _No. Joffrey is cruel. Cersei is cruel. Even the Hound was cruel, in his own way._

She has no idea what Blackfish thinks of the higher mysteries, but she doubts he will accept Lady Stoneheart easily. "The Brotherhood sought me out," she offers in lieu of the truth, covering his hand with hers. "They needed me, ser. Their people were starving and the Freys were vulnerable—"

The Blackfish drops his hand from her shoulder. "That does mean _you_ should have gone after them."

"Robb would've."

The Blackfish scowls at her, eyes probing and disapproving. "You seem to misunderstand warfare, Sansa. A queen does not fight in the field."

 _The women are important too!_ Arya would've shouted at him. Sansa only frowns. "Rhaenys Targaryen did. She helped Aegon on the Field of Fire."

He scoffs. "Pray, where is your dragon?"

Sansa has to give him that one, to her dismay. Her mistakes are piling up—giving no word of her whereabouts, putting herself in unnecessary danger...she sighs. She's always excelled at whatever she put her mind to as a child, except this. Except ruling. It does not come easily to her.

"I don't have one," she admits. Ser Brynden nods once.

"You often think of your people, Sansa. That is a good quality in a queen, as well you know. But I do not often see you think of yourself."

She lifts her eyes to his in shock. "Excuse me?"

"I've watched you step into Robb's role with more grace than I thought any one woman to have, even your mother." His gaze has mellowed out to bracing strength, like a bard singing a mournful song from the first verse to the very last. "It is no easy thing to go on after losing all you hold dear, yet you have. You _have_ , besting mine own nephew in that. It's a strength, Your Grace. You've been very strong." He looks down at her, gruff and concerned. His words retain a frost, but the regard for her is real. "It merely pains me—and others—to see you _ignore_ your own safety."

She flinches. She sought safety from Joffrey as often as she could, but somehow that self-preservation fluttered away when a crown was placed on her brow, and obligations affixed themselves to her shoulders. _Did you even consider your actions beforehand, Your Grace?_ Ellaria cried.

No, Sansa _didn't_. She didn't, she didn't, she didn't...

His answering smile is mirthless, knowing, and grim. Like a hare in a snare, Sansa is caught in another bed of her own making. "You said Robb would've gone after the Freys. Maybe so, but Robb was a king. A man grown and skilled with a sword. He knew that he would be the Lord of Winterfell all his life, knew that one day he may need to defend his home from wildlings as Warden of the North. What were you taught, Sansa?"

"Sums," she answers, sullen about her lots for just this argument. She loved being a lady, until it was used against her in court. "Sewing." There is more, much more, but she deems it sufficient. Sansa doubts elaborating will help her against the Blackfish's notorious stubborn streak.

"Indeed. You learned as much from your maester and your mother, did you not?"

"I did."

"Aye. You _learned_. This...endeavor, Sansa, was a mistake. You succeeded by sheer luck, and _dumb luck_ at that. Do you understand?"

Sansa remembers Bran's sulking moods after Maester Luwin sat him down for daily lessons. She likes this rebuke even less.

"I understand," she grumbles. The Blackfish's eyes gleam, embracing the role of a tutor well before she noticed it.

"What have you learned, save for restraining your...recklessness?"

Sansa sighs, putting Ellaria and Ser Brynden's words into her own answer. They are right, despite her reluctance, her stubbornness, her willful ignorance of decorum. _The Brotherhood's influence is greater than I realized_ , she reflects, remorseful. "I need to think of myself as well as others." She pauses, willing the words to come. They do, albeit grudgingly. It has been a long while since she has erred in a matter that was not a misguided, incorrect exaggeration of her own faults in Joffrey's court. "I ought to...seek counsel from my court before I act." That should've been obvious. Kings had small councils and Hands. Robb had advisors. What had Sansa done? _Sansa_ had let _Harwin_ lure her to Lady Stoneheart, and convince her that duping House Frey was the best route to Winterfell. It was not, despite the improbable victory—it was actually a _detour_.

"Trust is no easy thing to regain, Your Grace," the Blackfish warns. "Many are unhappy. The kingdom almost fell apart without you."

That is the problem, she sees too late, too close to her cause being lost. She has the remnants of Robb's domain, the desperate and the hungry, the things the lions and flayed men left behind to rot. The remains do not work together easily, especially with defeat souring their spirits and winter lowering them further. Sansa has to lead all who are left to safety and shelter, some to Winterfell, but all to nourishment and protection from her enemies, like the Starks of old. She was resigned to losing her life in the Twins. That, she realizes, ashamed, would've crippled her people again.

"I know, ser."

"Do you?" He asks in a ruthless admonishment. She has to wonder if he ever gave her mother the same quibbles. His gaze softens again, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. "You're the last Stark we have, Sansa, my only living kin save your uncle. I nearly lost you like I lost Cat and Robb."

The reminder is an arrow to the throat. "Forgive me," she murmurs, thickly. Between him and Ellaria, the guilt knows no bounds. " _Please_."

"One day, my dear," he promises, cupping her cheek with his hand. His eyes are as disarming as Mother's. "You'll need to work for it."

She gazes up at him, humbled and yielding. She's erred. She has to fix it, while it is still in her power. "A lady's work is never done."

"Nor a queen's," he quips, and she hiccups a laugh. "Peace, Your Grace. Dear one. You're _alive_. I thank the gods for it, but you must be better."

She recalls the same promise with the prince, a solemn understanding of their great wrong. "I will," she vows, and the Blackfish smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus the Frey arc of Sansa's journey ends, stuffed to the brim with lots of angsty schmoop! Hopefully, it was enjoyable. This chapter was twice as long as the usual count (again), because I just couldn't stop writing and adding details. This 'arc' over the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth chapters ended up with 23,940 words, which I was really happy about.
> 
> Additionally, I was delighted to include and save my Rosby-Freys. I love 'em a lot, like Jeyne Westerling. :)
> 
> This one was fun to write. When I first started this fic, Sansa's escape from King's Landing, the conflict in the Twins, and the Sansa/Ellaria/Oberyn dynamic were my main ideas, with everything else shaping around them. I also took the opportunity to address a few plot threads and characterization beats that I love, like Ellaria's speech from _ADWD_ (which I adore, even if Oberyn's survival has shifted her stance somewhat), the mashup of the _southern_ Dornish people and Sansa's _northern_ leaning subjects, Sansa's own distaste for violence, Sansa's penchant for mercy balanced against her own occasional vengeful thoughts in the text (hoping the Others get Janos Slynt, hoping Joffrey breaks his neck, and so on), the Brotherhood's shift from merry men and vigilantes to terrifying outlaws under Lady Stoneheart (essentially Catelyn Stark with the volume of her anger turned all the way up, and therefore a stranger), the pressures of kingship on a young girl, and that same girl falling in love with _two_ people. I also seized the chance to dole out some emotional consequences to counteract just how self-indulgent my ideas have been (Sansa gotten away with murder more than once, no pun intended). Hopefully...that all made sense stylistically.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, you guys are awesome to me.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahead lies 10,029 words of politics, angst, and hints of amends. Hopefully, Queen Sansa stuff doesn't bore you (I just love writing it). This chapter addresses some of the many subplots (and plot holes if and when I do notice them), which I'll resolve as the story continues. There are _AFFC_ and _ADWD_ events going on in the background, but they're unfolding super slowly.
> 
> My roster of characters is already huge, so I may or may not feature Jon. We'll see.
> 
> Also, I adore and prefer this [fancast](http://wasrobbstark.tumblr.com/post/33474424945/robb-she-screamed-she-saw-smalljon-umber) of Smalljon Umber over...that disloyal guy on the show. Hard pass.
> 
> Enjoy!

"...but there's no work to be found, yer Grace," the smith finishes, nervously, "if it please you, might you ask your lords for help?"

Seagard suits Sansa, despite its internal strife. She's spent most of the morning listening to petitions, grateful for the tedium. She's had her fair share of the field, all truths told. As if aware of her desire to stay indoors for as long as she pleases, the court is crowded, each bench filled to capacity. The northmen sit the closest, gaining color and weight in the fortnight since their arrival to the castle. The river lords align near the windows, forcing the Dornish to linger near the doors, the furthest away from her. Ellaria's presence in the back of the hall serves as Sansa's frequent distraction, one she cannot address at the moment, to her own disappointment. Though, Sansa has little idea of what to say to her.

The smallfolk are much easier to accommodate.

"Certainly, Jorl." Sansa gives him a smile before addressing the men along the walls. "My lords. Is one of you in need of a smith?"

"Acorn Hall has a dire need, my queen," Lord Theomar answers, stepping slightly away from the others. "Jorl can join my household."

"Thank you, m'lord, yer Grace," says Jorl, bowing deeply. Lord Theomar steps back, Jorl leaves the room, and the next petitioner approaches.

After another round, Ser Brynden suggests a break.

"You look gaunt, Your Grace," the Blackfish says, just for Sansa's hearing. "Eat something."

It's a simple pleasure to have food that is cooked properly and not close to rotting like the palate the Brotherhood suffered through, but Sansa hardly tastes it. There's still so much to do, enough to consume space her thoughts that would otherwise be occupied by her friends and the column. There was a fresh snowfall yesterday, she learns from Lord Mallister, which will slow progress up the kingsroad and push the journey to Winterfell off again. Worse still, a raven has been sent from Roose Bolton. Many eyes jump to see her reaction, so Sansa keeps her face blank.

"It's addressed to Black Walder," Lord Jason informs her, passing over the missive. Sansa sets down her cup, rips the seal off, and unfurls the letter.

"They've set a date for the wedding," she reads aloud, permitting all to hear. The court was ushered out to eat elsewhere, but a good number remain: Lords Piper, Smallwood, Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, Roote, and Paege, Oberyn, Ellaria, Obara, Nym, Sers Daemon, Ulwyck, Patrek, and Brynden, Jeyne Westerling, Harwin, Thoros, Roslin Tully, Perwyn Frey, the Umbers, Marq, and Kirth Vance. "Ramsay...Bolton will wed my sister in two months." _That isn't my sister_...but saying so would be unwise. If she wants to save the nameless girl, only the Dornish can know the truth.

"We will not make it in time," the Blackfish admits, gloomily.

"How far is Winterfell?" Lady Nym asks, speaking even if Ellaria will not. Sansa's gaze lingers on Ellaria, then flits to Oberyn. He nods, encouraging.

"Too far," Harwin answers with a morose look. _He loves Arya as I do_.

"No one will intercede?" Thoros questions.

"Not if they want to live," the Blackfish opines. "All we can do, Your Grace," he adds with a glance to Sansa, "is hurry."

That won't help the girl, Sansa knows, spotting the same worry among the other women. Smart as Ser Brynden is, he doesn't understand.

"What of me, Your Grace?" Roslin Tully asks, changing the subject after a silence has fallen. Sansa's almost relieved for the distraction.

"I am in need of you again, Lord Piper," says Sansa, getting the man's attention at once. Retrieving Marq has earned his loyalty beyond doubt. "Will you escort my aunt to Riverrun before you return to Pinkmaiden?" She asks, making herself and her own loyalty clear. Perwyn wears a brittle smile.

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace."

"Another matter, if I may?" Piper looks expectant, pursued quickly by the rest, so Sansa rises from her seat so all will hear. Her closest advisors and favorites inch near thirty by the numbers, but their presence soothes her. The attention is even something she is used to—Joffrey's court was much bigger than this one. "In the Twins..." The assembly looks avid and curious. She's spoken little of what happened, so what she says will circle through the camp like plague in short order. She must control the narrative. "I discovered my mother's body," she explains, heavily, feeling over a dozen pairs of eyes snap to her in mingled shock and horror. Ser Brynden looks especially pale. Oberyn watches with rapt attention, as if she will draw tangible strength from him. "She deserves to rest with my grandfather." Ellaria watches Sansa, searchingly.

"Indeed," Tytos Blackwood murmurs, joined by the other men. They knew her very well, Sansa recalls, wistfully. Like Robb.

"Will you bring...my mother to Riverrun, my lord, along with the Lady Roslin and Ser Perwyn? You may leave the arrangements to Lord Edmure."

"It would be my honor, Your Grace, my lady, and ser," Lord Piper acquiesces. Perwyn bows on Roslin's behalf.

Servants enter to clear the meal away, giving Sansa the chance to beg off with Brienne. Bundled up in shadowskin cloaks and the pelt of Grey Wind for Sansa, her sworn sword follows her to a courtyard overlooking the sea. The snow around the terrace sits untouched, coating railings and benches like a blanket. It makes her think of the moors beyond the gates of Winterfell, where no one bothered to clear paths and the land gleamed and sparkled like millions and millions of pearls. Sansa studies the gray sea from the railing, glad to think of nothing and no one for a few minutes.

Just a few. "Brienne?"

"Your Grace," Brienne answers, approaching.

"I am in need of your sword."

Brienne removes her gloved hand from the pommel of Oathkeeper, surprised. "Your Grace?"

"That sword belonged to my lord father," Sansa explains, feeling more akin to the roiling, angry sea than the calm and familiar comfort of the snow.

She doesn't _want_ the sword, not truly, but the captives await a trial that calls for it. Sansa tries to imagine the feeling the hilt in her hands, the strength in her own arms required to swing properly, and the smell of the blood and gore that will follow the execution. The last is the easiest phantom to conjure. "We called it Ice. My father used it to dispense justice." When it was Lord Eddard's, it was a greatsword, one of House Stark's oldest prides. After Tywin Lannister got a hold of it, one half became Widow's Wail while the other became Oathkeeper.

"You mean to wield it," Brienne guesses, as Sansa sinks to her knees to gather snow into her gloves. "Your Grace, may I speak freely?"

This snow is easy to pack. Sansa's arsenal of snowballs folds into a cylinder. She pauses to push her crown up on her brow. "Please."

"I mean no offense..." Sansa pokes holes in the cylinder for windows, then crenellations. "...but I do not think you should be the one to wield it."

She makes the keep, and the walls, with the inner one inching higher than the other. That did not help Bran and Rickon and the household against the ironborn, but this is the untouched castle of her dreams. It must look as it once did. "Why not?" Towers, turrents, staircases, an armory, a kitchen, the kennels, the godswood, the lichyard, the gatehouse, the bridges... _this is Winterfell_ , Sansa thinks, so painfully homesick the memories may very well be choking her. Her eyebrows furrow together, trying to keep the bridges from collapsing. It isn't working.

"You have no training, my queen. Your strength is—" _Your mind is your sword_ , Oberyn said, likening Sansa to Prince Doran.

 _You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you_? Joff sneered. _My mother says so._ "My mind," Sansa offers, banishing the memory.

"Your mind," Brienne agrees, visibly relieved. "You cannot learn to...swing the sword, Your Grace, on such short notice."

Sansa sighs, remembering Bran's breathless explanation of the errand that eventually let the men find the pack of direwolf pups. _Lady_. "Our way is the older way," she explains, using uncovered pebbles as graves for the snowy lichyard. "The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword."

"You are not a man, Your Grace. Surely...an exception can be made," Brienne cajoles, gently. "A northman to swing it, perhaps."

That didn't occur to Sansa. "Are you certain?" She asks, doubtful.

"You are not like me, my queen," says Brienne, looking down to Sansa with kindness. "Forgive me, but I do not think you would take any pleasure to learn in the training yard. And you must stay there, if you would like to be any good." Brienne must've camped out in the yard for years to gain such confidence, Sansa guesses, not unhappily. "You must work at it every day, Your Grace. You must learn balance, a stance, speed..."

Sansa wrinkles her nose. Spending so long at work sounds like the fastest way to get sweaty and uncomfortable. "Every day? I'm quite busy."

Brienne actually laughs, drawing a smile to Sansa's face. "Yes, Your Grace."

"I shall think on this," she decides after a moment, packing more snow and twigs for the godswood. "Thank you for your counsel."

Brienne bows and retreats back a few feet so Sansa can finish building Winterfell of her dreams in peace. Far above the courtyard, she catches a glimpse of an audience on the balcony, watching her. Jeyne, she recognizes at once, moving her gaze along the row. Ellaria. Gwen. Obara. Nym. _My ladies_ , she muses, looking at them with longing. They've avoided her since the spat with Ellaria save for chilly pleasantries, showing a clear indication of which side they are on. By now, Sansa knows that game very well. After Joffrey broke their betrothal in exchange for Margaery, the already fair-weather court—the same that pretended not to see or even _laughed_ when Ser Meryn beat her—flocked en masse to the future queen.

"Thank you, Brienne," Sansa murmurs, prompting Brienne's questioning look. "I would be quite lonely without you."

Her guard blushes a little. "It is my honor, Your Grace."

"Just Sansa," she corrects, wanting the private informality that she enjoyed in her travels. She fears it is gone forever. "When we are alone."

Brienne's hesitation is familiar ground, a comforting pattern that Sansa can predict, like Podrick Payne's stammers. "Very well, Sansa."

Her bridges collapse again, separating parts of Winterfell from others. Sansa glances up again as her audience begins to leave, one by one.

 _Taking the Twins was a victory_ , Sansa reminds herself, after Ellaria—the last to go, albeit with a lingering glance—has vanished. Sansa sighs, rising to her feet. The wind will sweep away her handcrafted Winterfell in a matter of moments. _Yet...I have still lost something._

* * *

The Dornishmen are just as cagey as their women when wronged, Sansa learns.

"Your Grace," Ser Qoren greets, politely, when she finds him by chance in a corridor. "Shall I sing for you?"

That will give him no joy, she sees, hurt. "I thank you for the offer, ser. Another day, perhaps."

Ser Ulwyck is similarly aloof, when Sansa runs into him on her way into the town of Seagard, at the gatehouse. The idea came to her yesterday, when she held court to hear petitions. They had little idea of who she was, even after the siege ended and the Stark banners flew above the castle. Someone in King's Landing told her—who, exactly, Sansa can't recall—that the smallfolk often did not know which lord they served. They were lucky to meet him _once_ in their lifetimes. That was not her father's way in Winterfell, and not the way Sansa wants to behave. All of wintertown knew Lord Eddard. He even invited members of his household to join him for supper, giving the guest of the night his complete attention. With the smallfolk from the Brotherhood finding new livelihoods and living quarters in Seagard, Sansa intends to make herself known to all the rest.

"Your Grace."

"Ser," she greets, missing his gruff demeanor and earnest declarations. She has grown fond of them, and him. "Are you well?"

"Well enough." _He is Ellaria's own uncle_ , Sansa reminds herself. _Assume nothing and you will not be disappointed._

"Will you inform Ser Brynden of my whereabouts?" She asks, retreating to the polite distance that Father employed, despite the care for his vassals.

Ser Ulwyck bows, blank and courteous. _And cold_ , she notices, defeated. She doesn't know why she expected otherwise. "Certainly, my queen."

With only Brienne and Pod for company, Sansa wanders into the town. She likes it better than Flea Bottom. The streets are clean and smell like the sea. Shops of all kinds litter the streets, from tanners to cobblers to coopers. Fishermen cry out the prices for their catches, though the words falter in surprise when Sansa and her crown are noticed. She's attracted a crowd as she meanders around stalls, greeting familiar faces that draw her eye.

"Your Grace," says Long Jeyne Heddle. That familiar smith from the hollow hill hovers nearby, listening. "We thought not to find you here."

She hasn't seen any of them since she sent them away and entered the Twins with the Brotherhood. Alys, Arron, and Geremy found her the other day, however, delighted to offer their well wishes and relief in her safety. Sansa thanked them profusely for their service, knowing the cause would be lost without Geremy's timely journey to retrieve the Piper host. "I wanted to see how you fared."

Wearing the frock that Sansa herself mended, Jeyne's sister Willow draws herself up to a new height. "We miss our inn, Your Grace."

"Your inn?" Sansa repeats, puzzled. Willow is still much shorter than her. _Is she trying to seem intimidating?_

"The Crossroads Inn," Long Jeyne explains, lifting a basket of eels higher on her hip. "It's been in our family for a hundred years."

"I stayed at that inn, once," Sansa recalls, thinking of that fateful day at the ruby ford, when Nymeria mauled Joff and Lady and the butcher's boy paid the price for it. It was so long ago, well before Sansa was saddled with responsibilities, when her family was whole and mostly happy, save for Father's stress and Bran's injury. _Things were so simple, then_. The war had not yet come to her doorstep. Joff was still gallant, still her golden prince, and Queen Cersei was still kind, still a caring woman...all until the fight. Only Sansa and Cersei remained of that group. That was sad.

"We remember you," Willow chirps, drawing her hood up when a gust of air of the sea sings over them. "You came with the king."

 _Where I shared a bedchamber with Arya, unaware I would lose her_. "I did." The Heddle sisters were lucky. They still had each other.

"With your...permit, Your Grace, we want to go back to it," Long Jeyne puts in, firmly, bringing Sansa back to the present. "It's our home."

The longing in Jeyne's voice reminds Sansa of her own when speaking of Winterfell. It is a claim, albeit much a smaller one. Sansa is in no mood to deprive them of it. "After the winter, I will give you an escort to bring you down the Trident," Sansa promises, hoping that will suffice. "You'll have all the funds you need to rebuild it. For now, however, you ought to stay here. Winter has come...and these roads are dangerous."

She hasn't seen Long Jeyne smile yet, but the approval is obvious. She even mangles a curtsy. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"And if we don't want to stay 'ere?" The smith asks, gaze blue and sharp and questioning.

"You may join me in Winterfell," Sansa suggests, unable to put her finger on who he resembles, although Brienne is staring at him.

His sharpness falters a bit, like Sansa's broken and mended his ribs, one right after the other. "I'll go. I'll go with you."

"Gendry!" Willow protests, stomping her foot. Gendry scowls.

"That's where I'm going! And don't you try to stop me, neither," he mutters, storming off like a bull. The Heddles begin to bicker amongst themselves, furious about Gendry's decision. Pod only shrugs when Sansa looks at him for an answer, in a rare display of an opinion.

"He's a bastard of King Robert, Your Grace," Brienne ventures, when Sansa has stopped at a glazier's shop to speak with him.

The glazier politely and apologetically declines the offer to accompany her to Winterfell. The state of her seat is poor, by all accounts, though perhaps the Boltons will have some sense to ensure the unkeep of the glass gardens now that autumn has ended. "Who?" Sansa asks, distracted.

"Gendry."

She imagines Gendry standing alongside King Robert and Lord Renly. "I did not realize." Another thing Sansa has not seen, though it's a minor issue. She supposes she must keep him safe—if the licentious rumors about Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are true, Gendry has half a claim to the Iron Throne, should he ever get legitimized. Sansa wonders if he'd ever want such a thing. _A worry for another day_ , she decides.

Traipsing back into the castle, the prince falls into step with Sansa with sinuous grace. Brienne and Pod fall back to a respectful distance.

"Your Grace," Oberyn murmurs, linking their arms. Sansa leans into his side a bit, peeling off her gloves.

"I missed you," Sansa tells him, honestly. After over a sennight in each other's constant company, she's unused to this new loneliness.

He draws one of her hands up to kiss it. "Have you divined what I was thinking, Sansa?" He asks, amused. She smiles.

"Not to my knowledge, my prince." Seagard is large enough to wander, so they do, strolling along aimlessly. "Are you well?" She asks.

"Better," Oberyn answers, "according to Maester Manfryd."

"Not Maester Cedrik?" Sansa wonders, confused. Why wouldn't Oberyn prefer a Dornishman, and more so, a friend?

"Cedrik is not happy with me."

"Why?"

He looks wry. "Guess."

Sansa sighs after the understanding dawns. "I see."

"It's only fair. They've chastised me as well as you," Oberyn admits, presenting a problem that Sansa had yet to consider. While she remains on the outskirts of the column, ostracized from her own court, the prince has found himself in a similar position. _Some said you eloped_ , Ellaria divulged, angry and indignant. Sansa squirms at the suggestion, discomforted. That explains the coldness from the Sand Snakes and Ser Ulwyck, perhaps the entire column. They've sworn themselves to Sansa, but Ellaria Sand has been Prince Oberyn's paramour for years. It...almost looks as if Sansa has swooped in to steal him away, born with rights and privileges and a station that Ellaria will never have. _I miss everything_ , she reflects, exhausted.

"Trust is no easy thing to regain," says Sansa, echoing the Blackfish. She can do no more _impulsive_ errands. "We'll need to work at it."

They reach the door to her chambers. It's Oberyn's turn to guess her train of thought. "You shouldn't be alone," he murmurs, concerned.

"You should go see Ellaria," Sansa replies, giving him a smile. It stretches across her mouth, false and weak.

He cups her cheek, thumb tracing the dark circles just below her eyes. In the distance, Brienne sends Pod away. "Sansa..." Oberyn trails off.

"You left her for me, my prince," Sansa reminds him. His touch is so soothing, she may just fall asleep in this threshold. Save for Lord Jason's maids, Oberyn and Ser Brynden are the only ones who's touched her beyond idle courtesy as of late. She misses Ellaria's kisses, Jeyne's closeness, Gwen's secret smiles, Lady Nym's quips, and Obara's brashness. "For a week, the court heard nothing. Think of how that must...look."

"You think too much of the others." He gazes at her, looking troubled. "You're going to waste away at this rate."

Ellaria's words ring in her ears, joined by Ser Brynden's. "We could've died, Oberyn."

"We could've," he agrees, "but instead we lived." Near enough to share breaths, she watches the torchlight dance across his eyes, weighing her decision. She wants Oberyn _and_ Ellaria, all truths told. One makes little sense parted from the other. She doubts he will be happy without Ellaria.

"I miss her," Sansa admits. He presses another kiss to her hands, rueful.

"As do I."

* * *

The following morning, Sansa, Harwin, and Thoros retreat to a clearing near Seagard, shadowed by Brienne, Pod, and Gendry.

Dennett, Lem, Likely Luke, and Mudge are set atop a pyre, arranged in the ways of the Lord of Light. Ser Hyle fell in the battle, as he long ago feared, so the Silent Sisters of the Eagle Sept prepared the bones for House Hunt's burial grounds. Sansa's own mother awaits an escort to Riverrun, accompanied by her goodsister and goodbrother. She wishes to attend the funeral herself, but...Sansa must only go north now.

"We ask the Lord to shine the light," Thoros murmurs, kissing the foreheads of each man in turn, torch in hand, "and take a soul from darkness. We implore the Lord to share their fire and light the candles that have gone out. From darkness, light. From the ashes, fire. From death, life."

Harwin stiffens slightly, watching. Thoros seems to pause, as if he's waiting for something. Sansa tightens her grip on Harwin's arm in question.

"We do not need another..." Harwin looks grim. "Mother Merciless."

Sansa shivers. One Stoneheart was more than enough. Thoros lights the pyre, hastily, and rejoins Sansa and Harwin.

"You don't believe, Harwin?" Sansa asks. He doesn't lift his gaze from the fire, looking lost as a ship without a rudder. Sansa wishes she could ease the lines out of his face, the grey out of his beard. He's still so...young? Younger than Oberyn, at least, yet one thrives and the other declines.

"I don't know."

"You begged me to revive her, Harwin," Thoros reminds him, displeased. "I refused, but Lord Beric agreed, and the flame of light passed from one to the other." Jeyne Poole was in love with this Beric Dondarrion. Both are gone now, uselessly lost in a war that seems as if it will never end.

"Magic," Harwin scoffs. "R'hllor isn't my god, Thoros."

"Not unless it suits you, of course."

"Fuck off."

"Enough," Sansa admonishes. Harwin complies by marching off, pursued by Gendry. She sighs, glancing at Thoros. "Are _you_ well, my lord?"

He gives her a small smile, swathed in the light of the pyre. "I am better. I never approved of..." _Stoneheart_ , Sansa surmises.

"Will you join me in the North?" She asks, idly wondering about the peculiarities of her court. Thoros nods, to Sansa's astonishment.

"I will. I continue to see you in my flames, Your Grace." A seer is...useful, however strange it may appear. _Lord Stannis has one, why can't I?_

"A host and serpents," she echoes the red priest's earlier words, thoughtfully. "Snakes and lizard lions and flowers and a sea of krakens." She wonders if the mention of flowers was literal, or if it related to her Florys disguise. The lizard lions must mean the Neck, Sansa decides. The krakens, according to Thoros of Myr, sleep for good. She doubts her piecemeal host can handle the ironborn. "What else do you see?" She asks.

"A man surrounded by skulls," Thoros admits, starting the walk back to Seagard. The words chill her to the bone, even as they enter the warmth of the castle. "He shifts between a man and a wolf. A grey girl on a dying horse. White faces weeping blood. Winged shadows against a blue sky."

"And...me?" Sansa asks, carefully. _You brighten the road ahead of us_. He smiles, enough to calm Sansa a little.

"That one is quite simple, my queen. You stand in Winterfell, always."

* * *

"Your Grace," Jeyne Westerling greets, after Brienne grants her passage into Sansa's bedchamber. Her steps slow down to a stop.

"My lady," Sansa answers without looking up, toying with the direwolf piece over Lord Jason's map. With the news of Ramsay Bolton's wedding, Sansa wants to get to the North as fast as possible. The kingsroad into the Neck is the obvious route, although she must wonder if it is still held by Lord Roose's forces. _The krakens sleep now, for good_. If the ironborn are gone from Moat Cailin, it must be...safer? She rests her chin on her hand, forgetting Jeyne entirely. The map's reminded of her first day with the Dornish aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_ , when Daemon Sand and Ulwyck Uller argued over the ideal passage back into Westeros. Daemon wanted to beseech the Vale for help, but Ulwyck urged for them to make for Riverrun. Ellaria mediated, insisting the men wait for Sansa's own counsel. She favored Ser Ulwyck in the end, although Ser Daemon was not offended.

"Your brother often worked into the night as you do," says Jeyne, and Sansa starts, finding Jeyne's eyes. Her steward looks sad.

"He did?" Sansa asks, trying to imagine Robb with kingly worries. Jeyne nods, running her fingers along the pointed swords of Sansa's crown where it rests on the table. She's gotten into the habit of removing it as soon as she's out of sight, likening its instant relief to a breath of fresh air.

"Robb never heard me when he was lost in thought, but he did _find_ moments to say goodbye to me."

Sensing both a rebuke and a trap in one comment, Sansa clutches the direwolf piece to her chest. "Shall I apologize to you, too?" She asks, tiredly.

"I don't need one," Jeyne assures her, surprising Sansa. "I only need your word as a Stark not to do something so foolish again."

It sounds almost _too_ easy, and Sansa does not need Thoros to divine the obviousness of that fact. Jeyne only smiles under Sansa's suspicious scrutiny, guileless. _Did Ellaria put you up to this?_ Sansa wants to ask, crossly, nursing a headache to no avail. _Ser Brynden? How much recrimination must I endure?_ Sansa shoots a longing glance at the flagon of wine near the hearth, for once wanting to drink it until it's empty. She contemplated an absurd amount of cups to get through Joffrey's wedding and her then upcoming one to Tyrion, although she never found the time. The poison in Joffrey's goblet put thirst far from her mind, only for life on the road and the run with the Dornish to push it out of Sansa's thoughts entirely.

She returns her attention to Jeyne, wistful. Friends are few and far between with that crown on her head, and she _is_ sorry.

She's also a Stark. The Starks can only yield so much. The Queen in the North can not afford to yield much of _anything_ , if Sansa dares to consider the precariousness of her kingdom even after all three of her victories. The Freys and the Lannisters were defeated by dumb luck, Dornish daring, and enough trickery to conceal their field movements in pursuit of her justice. _But all is not well_. Darry is held by a Lannister force, Harrenhal by the Holy Hundred, and Lord Baelish is the Iron Throne's choice for Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. A careless word could send a new host—one that Sansa can not afford to fight—into the very land she liberated. She has the Boltons to contend with now...and it's winter.

A twinge spirals into Sansa's brow. She puts pressure on it with the heel of her hand, debating whether to seek out Maester Manfryd.

 _Stress_ , she muses, groaning under breath, _or heartsickness?_ "I can try," she concedes, trying to distract herself.

"So try."

"You have my word that I will _try_ not to do anything foolish," Sansa relents, grudging. Jeyne's smile widens, earlier grief laid to rest. She wonders if Robb and Jeyne had any time to argue as husband and wife, doubting very much that Robb would gain even an inch against Sansa's steward.

"What are you looking for?" Jeyne asks as she sits down, scanning the canvas of the continent. She's very pleased to have won something.

"Did you come in _just_ for my word?" Sansa asks, not to be deterred, the words coming out as a grumble. Jeyne only laughs.

"Partly," she admits, sheepish. Her expression makes Sansa remember how young they truly are, rather than adhere to the idea that they are women who were often pawns in a much larger game. The initial players lost, however, leaving Sansa and Jeyne to reset the board and make new rules. "You've looked lonely, and I missed you," she adds, warming Sansa up again. "You must have fought the Freys very hard to return to us."

"I didn't," Sansa confesses, thinking of the fallen outlaws. _They_ fought and died, like so many of Sansa's dear ones. "I only sang songs."

"Even the rabble can influence a game of _cyvasse_ ," Jeyne counters, undaunted. That makes Sansa set down the direwolf.

"You sound rather Dornish, my lady," she observes, watching a flush steal across Jeyne's face. "Who have you been playing?"

"Ser Qoren, Your Grace. He has a gift for the game. Lady Nym and Ellaria play against us often." She must see Sansa's face fall, as she rushes to amend her answer. "When the mood strikes them, of course," Jeyne continues, hastily. "Neither have felt any desire to play in weeks."

She's never played a game against Ellaria. _Cyvasse_ was exclusively Oberyn's method of imparting statecraft, rather than an idle pastime.

"She misses you, you know," says Jeyne, waiting until Sansa meets her eyes to elaborate further. "I can tell."

"I've been...I'm _right here_ ," Sansa mumbles, petulantly, retrieving the direwolf again. Jeyne gives her a look.

"You _scared_ her, Your Grace," says Jeyne, stern. "You and Prince Oberyn. She was our...castellan, in your absence. We had no one else."

Just as hungry for knowledge of what she missed as the court is of her jaunt into the Twins, Sansa keeps her eyes down. "What happened?"

Fortunately, Jeyne explains.

When the column and assorted rivermen progressed closer to Seagard, Oberyn and Sansa vanished. No one could find them. The sentries were ruthlessly interrogated, although their answers were the same: the queen walked off with the prince, arm-in arm...oh, some of those hangers-on joined them, too, but none could quite recall what the men looked like, or how they knew Queen Sansa. Lord Blackwood urged all to continue on. Black Walder would never expect them, and this was what the queen herself wanted... "The battle was fast," Jeyne recalls, eyes far away. "Faster than Riverrun. Lord Tytos put Black Walder in the dungeons, and relieved Lord Jason of the siege, but we all wondered where you had gone."

"The hollow hill," Sansa answers, opting to clue in Jeyne to some of the story. Stoneheart, of course, is excluded. "With the outlaws."

Jeyne nods. "None of the lords knew what to do next, and few listened to us. It was like we were strangers," she continues, to Sansa's frustration. Her lords knew Jeyne and the column from Riverrun, and the former through Robb of all people! Must Sansa watch over the lot's behavior like a den mother? _Gods, Jeyne was their queen once._ "When Ser Brynden came back, things got better. He brought Kyle Condon and the six hundred men left behind by Lord Bolton at the ruby ford, if you remember. After he learned about you, he was...very angry." Jeyne winces. "Ellaria spoke to him."

"The lords will hear from me," Sansa promises, darkly. Jeyne holds up a hand, cautious.

"Tread carefully, Your Grace. I also came to give you a message. Lord Blackwood gave it to Ser Brynden, but he felt it more appropriate if...I gave it to you. As a steward," Jeyne clarifies. "And..." She gives Sansa conspiratorial look. "Ser Brynden may feel that he has been too harsh with you."

"After he spoke with you?" Sansa guesses, accepting the scroll. Jeyne grins, confirming her suspicions.

"Perhaps."

Sansa smiles, unfurling the parchment a little. No one in the Red Keep spoke behind Sansa's back for her own benefit prior to the Dornish prince and his paramour. So many new friends have settled in her heart, and they've returned that love. "Thank you, Jeyne," she breathes out.

She scans the scroll, quickly unenthused to discover its contents. The headache cleaves back its way back into her brow, sharp as briars.

"Well?" Jeyne prompts.

"Lord Blackwood has proposed a match between myself and his son, Hoster."

"A marriage?" Jeyne asks, mystified. "You don't have time for _that_."

It's my claim, Sansa longs to say, longs to _scream_ about it all over again. The men's respect for her only goes so far. Sansa doesn't doubt that proposals will come pouring in on behalf of the knights and lords in her kingdom that are still fortuitously unmarried. Marq Piper, she guesses. Patrek Mallister. Jonos Bracken would offer a son if he had one. Kirth Vance is another possibility. And Sansa cannot leave out her northmen, not when Smalljon Umber is so near. She wonders if that was the reason for Blackwood's strange smile during all those conferences in Riverrun. The idea came to him then, she presumes, thinking of the night when she explained that her betrothal to Tyrion was broken when Joffrey died.

"What will you do?" Jeyne asks, sounding impossibly young. _She married for love. I can't._

What _can_ she do? Sansa has no idea. Demur, like the prince and his paramour? That will not serve, Sansa knows.

"They'll hear from me," she answers, tiredly, wondering if she'll be as gray as Harwin after she's gone home. "When, however...I am not certain."

Jeyne pauses only for a moment, thinking it all over. "Wine, Your Grace?" She suggests, retrieving the flagon.

"Please."

* * *

While Sansa broods over the proposal, the snows, Winterfell, the Boltons, and many other concerns, the distance between herself ( _herself and Oberyn_ ) and the column continues to linger. Jeyne plays the go between, apologetic as she returns and steadfast as she leaves, to no avail.

Obara Sand, of all people, is the one to bestow Sansa with a boon.

"I warned you, didn't I?" She remarks, drawing Sansa from her reverie. They stand at one of Lord Jason's balconies, the only sources of color in the white and gray world beyond the castle. They gaze at the endless horizon of the Sunset Sea. "You can't make everyone happy, Your Grace."

 _Edmure said just the same_. "I don't regret trying." She regrets failing, regrets the error, regrets the pain caused. She won't repeat it.

"You were foolish."

At the door, Brienne frowns at Obara's impropriety. Sansa, meanwhile, welcomes the feedback...only a little begrudgingly. As a child, she devoured any knowledge of Queen Alysanne and Queen Alicent, eagerly searching for what made the smallfolk and Westeros love them so much. Queen Alicent's legacy was tainted by the Dance of the Dragons, but Alysanne's veneration continued long after she died. _A queen must listen to all_ , Alysanne wrote from the Last Hearth during the court's tour of the North, when Jaehaerys wondered why she was so intent on abolishing the right of first night. _The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found._ Sansa's mistakes were few and far between as a child, easily dismissed as a matter of incorrect sums or, rarely, poor embroidery. As a queen and almost sixteen years to her name, her mistakes are judged longer, and scrutinized more closely.

"I was," Sansa says, staring at the sea. She measured a risk wrongly, despite the unlikely successes. The North's needs outweighed her own life. Her life _means_ something now. The people in the kingdom need Sansa to _endure_ , not to go out in a blaze of glory. She has to think of the sums, not the songs. She glances at Obara, surprised to feel so blasé about it. "Are you happy to remind me, as you so duly promised?"

"No," Obara answers, droll. "It was not worth it."

"Just so," says Sansa, imitating the prince, and Obara actually smiles. Sansa can't remember if she's seen one of hers before.

"Ellaria misses you," she admits, retreating to her familiar gruffness. There isn't a close blood connection between Obara Sand and Ser Ulwyck Uller as far as Sansa knows, but the resemblance in manner is rather uncanny. "And my father. I've never seen a quarrel like this one, Your Grace."

Someone in King's Landing informed Sansa that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better. At this rate, Sansa judges that she must be worthy to join the Citadel and become a maester. Her _lessons_ began when Joffrey refused to give Father a place among the Night's Watch. Sansa doubts they will ever end, if this hurt and shame are any indications to go by. She rests her hands on the snowy railing, searching for strength.

"I apologized to Ellaria," she murmurs, remembering that slick, all consuming fear at the sight of Ellaria's hurt. _I caused that_. Oberyn was no wilting flower, either. Saving Sansa placed a Wall-sized wedge between the lovers that she frets will never be felled. "What more must I say?"

"Words are wind," Obara advises, her belt of copper suns clinking as she moves to to stride away. "You must find another way to show your hand."

Left alone before the Sunset Sea, Sansa breathes in, long and deep. A queen must listen to all, bannermen, bastards, and blacksmiths alike.

 _There is some truth to be found_ , she reflects, pulling her hood up a little higher. _A quarry afoot, one I must find alone_.

* * *

Today, Sansa finds a little sympathy for Arya.

Her sister never liked the comfort and fun of a circle of ladies could get into when Winterfell still belonged to the Starks, instead preferring to sneak off to the yard with the boys. Sansa never minded—Beth and Jeyne made better company, and of course, Septa Mordane. They'd pray, sing, stitch, even dance if the desire struck them. Lady Catelyn would join them from time to time, always amused by the little verses that Sansa and Jeyne came up with for her entertainment. Why bother with the yard and all its smelly boys when you could eat lemoncakes in a warm and cozy room?

Plenty's changed since then. Sansa almost _prefers_ to linger among the men and discuss strategy than linger a moment more in this...silence.

The _silence_ rests between Ellaria and Sansa, though it collects in the center of the room like hoarfrost. The awkwardness is stifling.

The women of the court occupy one of Lord Jason's sitting rooms, ostensibly accompanying Sansa as benefits her station. Without the late Lady Mallister to plan meals and meetings, Sansa is the highest ranking woman in Seagard. Naturally, the others flock to her side when she isn't with her advisors, obediently—but some, not happily—sitting with Sansa to sew and gossip. And it isn't only the noblewomen in attendance. The Heddle girls were invited along, Obara Sand has grudgingly appeared, Gwen and some of the Mallister maids confer with the Lady Nym. Jeyne shows Ellaria and Roslin a Westerlander embroidery technique. Even Alys has made a nervous acquaintance. _It won't be that way in Winterfell_ , Sansa remembers promising Ellaria aboard the _Vaith's Vixen_ , misliking the realm's regard of the lowborn. Her court's already started to change for the better.

Sansa misses that day and all the sweetness that followed dearly. A fortnight of silence has hurt more than a sennight of physical separation. Ellaria is close enough to touch if Sansa so desires, but she knows it is unwelcome. Even Oberyn isn't immune to Ellaria's brushoff—she's observed their stilted interactions with her own eyes. An accord looks as unwanted as a white raven. _So slow to forgive us_ , a childish part of Sansa whines, but the larger counterpart amends, _you are the same._ In safety, Ellaria is permitted to nurse a grudge. In the captivity of the Red Keep, Sansa was forced to swallow insult after insult, and smile for it. Seagard has honesty flying over Sansa's court like Mallister eagles. The court in King's Landing was filled with artifice, cloying as Tyrell flowers. _No_ , Sansa reflects, sadly. _I will accept no more duplicity._ Truly knowing Ellaria's stance is best.

"An inch, Your Grace," Della comments, measuring Sansa's waist with a string of yarn. She's the best seamstress among the Seagard maids, and not much older than Sansa herself. Sansa wishes girls like that lived in the Red Keep. Life would've been bearable. "We'll pull in an inch," she judges.

Sansa returns to her seat. She's losing weight, and fast. Their distance does not stop Ellaria from staring when she isn't, and vice versa. With Sansa determinedly focused again on her sewing, Ellaria looks and looks, dark eyes roving up and down and back. "Thank you, Della," says Sansa.

Della curtsies.

"Your stitches are messy, Obara," Nym jeers.

Obara's retort sends the maids into delighted giggles.

"Your Grace?" Maester Manfryd interrupts after Brienne lets him in, bowing. "A few matters require your attention...?"

Setting down her embroidery, Sansa looks up with a sigh, electing for a open meeting. No one here is a spy. "You may speak, Manfryd."

The maester complies. "Ser Jaime seeks a cell fit for a man of his station...again. This is the fourth inquiry, my queen," he adds, dryly.

"Ser Jaime's lodging is appropriate for a recurrent oathbreaker," Sansa disagrees. "He should consider himself lucky that..." Roslin looks mild as Sansa looks to her, even composed. "Ser Jaime should count himself lucky that he will not join Lord Walder and his sons in the trial."

 _He can't_ , she muses, envisioning her enemy in the Red Keep. _Jaime Lannister is my safeguard from Cersei. He'll join me in the North._

Manfryd passes over messages from Edmure. Sansa passes one of them to Roslin, seeing the styling of _Lady Tully_. Roslin blushes.

"The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch has written your lords," Manfryd continues, scanning his notes. "Snow seeks men, food, and arms."

"Snow? Jon Snow?" Sansa asks. Other conversations peter out as the room listens in. Separated from Sansa only by Jeyne, Ellaria observes.

Manfryd consults the scroll again, puzzled. "Yes, Your Grace. Lord Commander...Jon Snow. Are you familiar with him?"

"He's my brother," she answers, a smile coming easily as she reads over the letter. His handwriting still looks the same. It makes her glad. "My last brother. He's...he's the _Lord Commander_?" Sansa repeats as comprehension dawns all over again, amazed. "How did that happen?"

_Jon is Lord Commander and I am Queen in the North. Father would never believe it._

"Lord Snow was elected by the black brothers, Your Grace. Lord Mormont was slain at the Fist of the First Men last year."

"I..." Jon doesn't know about her coronation yet. She can't write him until Winterfell is hers again. The situation is too precarious, especially with the Boltons left to contend with, as well as winter's own brunt. "Consult Lord Jason, Manfryd, though I doubt we can afford to give Jon anything until after I've gone home," she explains, heavily. "The Starks have always been friends of the Watch. I won't refuse Jon the aid, but it must...wait."

"As you say, my queen." Manfryd leans a little into the circle, extending a vial for Sansa to reach out and grab. "Lastly, your dreamwine."

Sansa turns over the vial in her fingers, relieved. _This will help_ , she tells herself. _The nightmares will go away_.

Ellaria elbows Jeyne as the maester leaves, a pointed look on her face. Jeyne coughs. "Dreamwine, Your Grace?" She prompts, hastily. Ellaria resumes her sewing as if nothing's happened, but it gives Sansa a flicker of hope, like the smallest candle in a sept. "Are you well?" Jeyne asks.

"I don't sleep enough, my lady," Sansa admits, more for Ellaria's benefit. "Bad dreams wait for me." _And ghosts, many ghosts._

"I used to dream of walrus-men," Jeyne offers, steering the focus away, a genuine courtier. "My maester liked to frighten me with tall tales, I think."

"Nymeria used to cry about shrykes in her bedchamber," Obara declares, gleefully taking her revenge as the opportunity arises. The maids giggle.

Lady Nym is outraged. "Liar."

"I never lie."

"You _do_! You convinced Jennelyn to spurn me for a moon's turn over a jest I _never_ made!"

Over Jeyne's shoulder, Ellaria smiles at Sansa. It's a small one, but affectionate, and enough to make Sansa's heart take flight and soar.

 _All is not well, but maybe it **will** be, one day_.

* * *

"...run out of food at our inn, my lady," explains the boy who introduced himself amusingly as Hot Pie, "now that winter's come."

"Your Grace," Brienne corrects, gently. Hot Pie reddens.

"Have you any family?" Sansa asks him, as the court shifts in their seats. It's been a long afternoon of petitions, and bellies are rumbling.

"'m an orphan o' King's Landing, Your Grace," Hot Pie answers, going laboriously to one knee. "Sharna and Husband gave me a place to stay." The ugly woman behind Hot Pie gazes upon Sansa with speculation. Husband, sallow and pockmarked, looks around Seagard's hall with squinty eyes.

"You cook?" She prompts. The three of them nod in a disorganized fashion. Sansa rather likes them. "Would you like to join me in Winterfell?"

Sharna's eyes widen. Husband blinks. Hot Pie's mouth falls open.

"Winterhell?" Hot Pie repeats, astonished. Chuckles rise from the men on the benches and along the walls. Sansa smiles.

"Winter _fell_ ," she corrects, smoothing down a small fold in her gown. Lord Jason's generosity knows no bounds—Sansa has a chest of new dresses, and plenty of fabrics to sew her own, should it please her to do so. It all comes with a stipulation, she guesses, but Sansa refuses to think on the proposals until she absolutely has to. "I am in need of a new household," she explains, wistful. Gage and Turnip and Farlen and Mikken and Bandy and Shyra are long lost. "My father's ward put all the people to the sword, and our kitchens must be staffed. If you don't care for the cold, I take no offense. You may stay with one of my lords in the Riverlands." _Useless mouths_ , Lothar Frey would judge these three. Sansa disagrees.

"Aye," Sharna answers, accepting her new lots with more serenity than Sansa ever has. Husband bows in acquiescence. Hot Pie eases to his feet.

"I'll bake the bread!" the boy crows, eagerly. "I've been practicing. I know how to shape it like your—your banner. The direwolf."

Amusement puts smiles on the faces of the court, and on Sansa's most of all. She spots Oberyn's pleased expression, gladdened to see it.

 _If only all problems were so simple_ , she muses, cheered a little. "I thank you for your kindness, Hot Pie. You may leave for your supper now," she bids of the group, and soon all are gone on their merry way. Sansa glances at Maester Manfryd. "Is there aught else, maester?"

"Your Grace," Lord Jonos Bracken offers, move to stand before the dais and ignoring the court's visible grumbling, "a final matter."

"Of course, my lord."

Bracken's look is not promising. Sansa likes the words out of his mouth even less. "My queen, I must inquire into the presence of the Dornish."

Oberyn's cheer fades, Obara and Nym stiffen, the knights and squires frown, Gwen scowls, and Ellaria Sand does nothing at all. A hush falls over the hall, as if the light and warmth are being drawn out of the room, little by little. _Few listened to us. It was like we were strangers_ , Jeyne had said, including the quandary of her place in Sansa's court with the column's own uniqueness. The Blackfish's gaze settles on Sansa, although it reveals no hint of his feelings. _All are watching me_ , she realizes, knowing a sheet of rotten ice when she sees one. _There is a trap here. Tread carefully..._

She opts for diplomacy. "Explain yourself, Lord Jonos."

"Some wonder why you continue to bring them...along, Your Grace." His irreverence angers Sansa, but she squashes it underfoot.

"The Dornish are mine own allies, my lord," she answers, politely enough. "What part confuses you?"

Bracken is not deterred. "We do wonder why they fight for you. Dorne is the furthest kingdom from the North, and a small and poor one besides." Oberyn is growing steadily redder in the face, Sansa sees, but he dares not speak, lest he uphold his own reputation and give Bracken leverage. "Their loyalty is...suspect, you see." Sansa does not see, but she must listen to all, despite her qualms. She merely doubts Jonos Bracken has a truth she needs to hear. In the audience, she searches for Bracken's confederates with her eyes. Only Lymond Roote and Halmon Paege seem particularly interested in the conversation. The other rivermen only seem bored, hungry, or tired. _We_ is smaller than Bracken realizes, Sansa observes, thinking of Tytos Blackwood. Jeyne never went into detail about _which_ lords treated her and the Dornish so poorly, but Bracken seems like a safe bet.

Bracken is still going. Sansa wonders if she dozed off. "...on numerous occasions, Your Grace, Dorne has looked after only its own interests."

"Such as?"

"The Trident."

"Forgive me, Lord Jonos, but the Rebellion was twenty years ago," Sansa reminds him, more than willing to parry every blow Bracken delivers. He's fishing for a reason to sow discord, Sansa realizes, weighing that theory against the evidence of her own behavior. She's played favorites with the Dornish, and often; Oberyn has her attentions, Ellaria has her confidences, and Ser Ulwyck has her ear. They appeared seemingly out of nowhere, with Sansa in tow, and took Riverrun with...a deception. _Dornish dog_ , one of the Frey men sneered. All of Westeros sees the Dornish as hotblooded and mistrustful and licentious. Sansa shouldn't have expected any different from the rivermen. "It does not apply now. What else?"

"But it _does_ , Your Grace. They turned their cloaks against—"

"Who?" She asks, impatiently. Her column is silent, but their own irritation is clear. "The Iron Throne? Consider the facts. The Mad King held Princess Elia and her children as captives in the Red Keep. Dorne and Prince Lewyn had no choice but to fight on the Trident."

"You should not trust them," Bracken insists, louder. "Prince Doran called his banners after Princess Myrcella went to Sunspear."

"Tell me, Lord Bracken, where are Prince Doran's men now?"

"The high passes."

"Prince Oberyn," Sansa calls, addressing him with thinly concealed annoyance, "how far are the high passes from Seagard?"

He's all too happy to answer that. "Leagues and leagues of mountains and fields and rivers between both of them, Your Grace."

" _Will_ your brother move the men from the passes?" She never thought of that before, but she supposes it must be addressed.

Oberyn is firm. "No, Your Grace."

"Their loyalty is suspect, Your Grace!" Bracken exclaims, puce and blustering. "You cannot ally with the Starks _and_ the Lannisters. It's folly."

"You dipped your banners to Ser Jaime and set up a siege against Lord Tytos at first chance," Sansa reminds Bracken, coolly. "Or am I mistaken?"

He's outraged, so outraged that Brienne shoulders her way closer to the dais, ever protective. "That is _not_ the same!"

"Jonos," the Blackfish ventures, sounding uncomfortable. The other riverlords look rather sorry for Lord Bracken and the spectacle he's made of himself so far, but Sansa doesn't. "Peace. Abandon your misgivings. Prince Oberyn has pledged all the swords of Dorne to your queen."

"I only want Her Grace's dignity and honor upheld," Bracken asserts, stiff. His regard for her, too, seems conditional. She gave him some of Blackwood's lands and a valuable hostage, only for him to fling sallies back in her face. Sansa feels a new headache cleaving into her brow. "You are Lady Catelyn's last child, and King Robb's own heir, but your...your _cavorting_ with these bastards and the prince's own upjumped whore will—"

Half of the column jumps to its feet. Obara Sand is scowling. Lady Nym has Bracken in the crosshairs of a dagger if she so moves. The benches are a mixed bag, to Sansa's dismay. The northmen are undecided, but regard Bracken with unveiled contempt; the rivermen angle themselves between the Dornish and the men of Stone Hedge, if only reluctantly; Sansa's medley of companions look furious. Jeyne Westerling, Rollam Westerling, Roslin Tully, and Perwyn Frey are glowering. Thoros shakes his head, Harwin grimaces, Dontos Hollard looks aghast, Daemon Sand is fuming, and Ulwyck Uller is snarling. Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister look appalled by Bracken's nerve. The Blackfish looks wan and ill-tempered.

Ellaria has a restraining hand on Oberyn's wrist, knuckles white. Sansa can only see a glimpse of her upset expression, but it is plenty.

" _Enough_!" Sansa snaps without another moment's hesitation, her voice ringing through the hall like the blast of a war horn.

To her grim satisfaction, its occupants freeze. She can't quite remember when she got to her own feet, but she stands stock still for a moment, grasping blindly for her composure. One hand behind her back and the other at her side, Sansa stares down Jonos Bracken. "Sit," she demands of the room, and all within do, scuffing boots on Lord Jason's floors and making benches squeal in their haste to comply. Silence reigns as they wait for her to speak. "Lord Bracken," she begins, coldly, electing to teach him a sharp lesson. "Tell me what you know of my time in King's Landing."

"Your Grace?" Bracken asks, confused. Wordless, she gestures for him to continue. "I know...I _heard_ you and your sister were taken prisoner after Lord Eddard died." He can't seem to recall much else, she sees. The other men likely feel the same—it's as if Sansa appeared from the ether with Robb's crown, and all fell in line. _But_ , she thinks, _that was not so. I was **acclaimed** as Queen of the Trident._ "Then, only that you killed the king."

 _I played my part_. "It was much worse than that, my lord," Sansa tells him, reluctant to share so much of her troubles but all too aware of the need. He doesn't understand. None do, although that must be remedied. She draws in a breath for strength. "When my father was arrested, I pleaded for Joffrey's mercy. He gave me his word, so long as my father confessed his _treason_ before gods and men. He cut my father's head off anyway at the Great Sept of Baelor." Bracken flinches. "They made me watch it, _you see_. Then Joffrey brought me atop the battlements and made me _look_ at my father's head on a spike. Tell me," she urges, "would you've liked your daughters to see your head on a spike?"

Bracken swallows. To him, it's a naked threat. To Sansa, it's merely an example, a demand that he exercise empathy. She doesn't want to make him afraid of her. Fear solves nothing. She only wants respect. She doubts he ever accosted Robb like this. "No, Your Grace," he answers, meekly.

"No," she agrees, folding her hands in front of her at the waist. "Yet I did, and Joffrey still planned to wed me." She eyes Bracken, perfectly content to draw out the tension as long as she likes. She's been an absentee queen as of late—Sansa suspects few know what she is capable of. "I didn't matter what I wanted, my lord. I would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet married to the monster that killed my own father."

"But you didn't," Lady Nym ventures, the first in the audience to speak. Sansa glances at her.

"I didn't. Thank the Tyrells, my lady, though I doubt it will please you to do so. Lady Margaery made a more attractive bride to Joffrey."

Oberyn makes a noise of disagreement.

"The Tyrells almost wed me to Lord Willas," Sansa continues, "but the plot was discovered and Lord Tywin felt another match was in order."

"Tyrion Lannister," the Blackfish supplies, more for the benefit of the assembled court. She nods, gaze hardening.

"Tell me, Lord Bracken. What did you think the king whispered in my ear, when the betrothal was announced?"

Bracken looks as pale as milk. He gulps. Obara sneers. "I...I do not know, Your Grace."

"'It doesn't matter _which_ Lannister put the baby into you'," Sansa recites, ignoring the swell of anger and disgust that circles the benches. The Mallisters look rather green in the face. Someone curses. "He promised to visit my bedchamber," she adds, "as soon as his uncle fell asleep."

"Your Grace, I—"

" _Tell me_. Would you subject your daughters to such a life?"

"No!"

"No," Sansa agrees, feigning amiability. He wants a reprieve, but she will not give him one. "Would you say I was lucky to escape, my lord?"

"Y-yes."

"Yet you call my rescuer an _upjumped whore_ ," Sansa snaps back, spooking Bracken again. "It was Ellaria Sand's idea to spirit me away from the capital. While Joffrey's court laughed in my face and left me to the lions, Ellaria Sand took one look at me and decided otherwise." Sansa glances around the room, measuring the reaction. The court is torn asunder, angry and appalled and shocked. Oberyn doesn't seem to mind the complete omission of his own part. "Ellaria Sand intended to bring me to Winterfell, you see. I walked into the Riverlands without a purpose save for finding the Blackfish to help us, but the kingdom called to me. Robb's cause spoke to me. The Dornish agreed to fight for me. They also swore their swords to me and remained at my side ever since." She studies Bracken, icy. "Not even my own brother dared to rescue me from King's Landing. Not even one of his men. Not even you. _You_ , if memory serves, surrendered to the Lannisters and penned up Lord Tytos at Raventree as soon as you could."

"We lost," Bracken mumbles.

"We did, but that did not stop Ellaria Sand from embodying all the qualities of a _true_ knight. The same cannot be said for you, Lord Jonos."

He flushes.

"Speak no more to me of Dornish loyalty, my lord," Sansa advises Bracken, although she means it for the entire court. "And you _will_ apologize."

Bracken goes to one knee. "Forgive me, my queen," Jonos pleads. "I only wanted to—"

"Ask forgiveness of _Ellaria Sand_ , my lord," Sansa tells him, allowing Bracken to gape at her feet. "Is there aught else, Maester Manfryd?"

Lord Blackwood is smiling again. Listening to Bracken's gibbering promises of fealty, Sansa wishes to slap both of them, but refrains.

The maester shakes his head, wisely knowing not to challenge her. Even the Blackfish looks averse. "No, Your Grace."

"That will be all," she orders of the room.

* * *

Left unattended in her chambers for the night, Sansa sits by the fire, head bowed and arms curled around her knees, going over the ordeal in the hall. _What could I have done better_? She wonders, anxious, searching the flames for the answer, but the visions never come. She judges that to be good thing, if a disappointing one—the old gods have given her boon after boon for months. Switching her loyalty to R'hllor would be unkind.

_What would you have done, Robb?_

She isn't sure. Often, she finds herself thinking of Robb devoid of any flaws. And that couldn't be right, she reasons. They all fail, sooner or later.

A knock on the door banishes all thoughts of her brother. "Your Grace?" Brienne calls, hesitation clear. "Ellaria Sand wishes to see you."

Sansa pauses, but in the end, the command doesn't waver. _What's one more ordeal?_

"Enter."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments were so sweet and amazing! I really appreciate all your kind words. 
> 
> Ahead lies some flangst, humor, apologies, plenty of courtship shenanigans, and more politicking. I'm so happy everybody enjoys the QiTN stuff as much as I do. It's fun. Anyway, thanks so much for reading! Enjoy!

Ellaria joins her at the hearth, electing to sit on the stone rather than on the floor with Sansa.

In the firelight, half of Ellaria's face is swathed in shadow. The other half, bronze and glowing, looks...wistful. They gaze each other, listening to the snapping and hissing of the flames, and in the end, it isn't Sansa who breaks the silence.

" _Now_ who's playing the knight?" Ellaria asks, soft and affectionate, and just like that, the discord between them cracks down the middle, splintering like ice atop a pond. Sansa smiles back, feeling sheepish.

"I couldn't let him speak of you like that," she explains, and Ellaria cups her cheek with a hand, stroking a thumb along the skin there.

"My lady of ice and snow," she murmurs, fond.

That afternoon in the Red Fork wasn't just on _her_ mind, it seems. "Your lady of slush and water," Sansa demurs, thinking of her tiredness as of late. The earliest Kings of the North were called the Kings of Winter. Sansa doubts she has the needed fierceness to claim a title like the Queen of Winter.

Ellaria laughs, eyes bright. "You're not a lady any longer, my love."

"No," Sansa admits, worried that this will puncture the bubble of relief and serenity that Ellaria's smile seems to conjure at will.

Ellaria lowers her hand. "No," she agrees, firmly, "and perhaps I should've known it."

That is the probably _last_ thing Sansa expected to hear, save for something utterly ridiculous, like an ice dragon. "Pardon?"

Ellaria looks pensive. "You're still so _young_ , Sansa. I'd forgotten."

"I'll be a woman grown soon." _I'm already flowered and a queen at that. I've seen enough to make the Crone's lantern crack._

"Almost six and ten namedays and a worldliness gained only from grief," Ellaria reproves, and sighs. "I expected much of you. Too much." When Sansa mishears it as a criticism, tensing, Ellaria places a lulling hand on Sansa's knee. "You called me a merling in the Red Fork—do you recall?"

"I do." Then, sopping wet and impossibly regal, Ellaria kissed Sansa for the first time, not once minding if Gwen was near.

"And I called _you_ a queen. It was a jape, only for that very thing came to pass in Riverrun. You can understand my amazement, can't you?"

Bemused, she nods. There was something so invigorating, yet so terrifying, when the first call from the rivermen rang with the _Queen of the Trident_. Ser Brynden went first, joined next by sweet Ser Patrek, then Garrett Paege, then Ser Deziel...that was just the first course. Getting acclaimed as _Queen in the North_ made Sansa feel _alive_. "There are none left but me. I am not the Stark they want, but I am the Stark they have."

Sansa gets a look of admonishment for _that_ comment, but Ellaria magnanimously lets it go unchallenged.

"A queen," Ellaria muses after a moment, "and crowned right in front of my eyes. It was a song in the making."

"The songs are less bloody."

That imperious look of Ellaria's returns. "You haven't been listening to the right songs."

Sansa giggles.

"I kept watching. You rose so high in Riverrun. It was astounding. 'This is the sweet, sad girl I saw in the Red Keep?' I asked myself, watching you herd your querulous lords until they bent to your will. ' _Indeed_. That girl was a wolf in sheepskin, waiting for the right moment to strike'." Ellaria seems to have misjudged the terrible fear Sansa carried with her every day in King's Landing and the necessity of appearing small, stupid, and unthreatening, but not even the disbelieving look from Sansa can deter the prince's paramour. That enigmatic look of hers has reappeared as well, the one that beguiled so many, and besotted so many. "You found a new purpose, I saw, and—to borrow my lover's word—it _inspired_ me."

"It was only my duty," Sansa insists, but Ellaria just smiles.

"It was magnificent, Sansa. Do not deny it! A queen coronated so quickly, hundreds of men eager to swear fealty to her, and a quest to go home. Do you see? You reminded me of Nymeria of the Rhoynar." She laughs quietly, cupping Sansa's cheek again as if that will do anything to combat the rush of blood filling her cheeks with color. "I was all too happy to join my voice to theirs. You deserve all you have and more, Sansa. I believe that."

The color darkens faster, tears of hope and relief jump to her eyes, and Ellaria's lips meet her forehead, filling Sansa's life with sweetness again.

"Tears of joy?"

"Tears of joy," Sansa confirms, gulping in a breath to recover herself. Ellaria's fingers slide along her jaw, soothingly.

"You began to worry me, however," Ellaria admits, growing cautious. It's a strange sort of tale, to see her own journey from another's eyes. Oberyn spins stories lifted from Dornish and Essosi histories, but Ellaria is weaving the one Sansa herself has lived, albeit told from a different perspective.

"When?"

"When we returned to the road. 'We are going north', I said, feeling colder than I ever have in all my travels with our beloved prince, and you turned your head away to hide your smile." Sansa knows that moment well. Qoren Sand sang sweetly, Jeyne Westerling giggled at his antics, and a shackled Jaime Lannister grumbled and asked for a different song. Sansa deigned to grant him one, requesting 'Seasons of My Love'...only to suggest the same song that tweaked the Kingslayer so much. _Prince Oberyn's laughter made all the snow shrikes flee._ "We stopped to make camp just outside of Seagard," she murmurs. "Harwin took you aside, Oberyn kissed me goodbye, and soon enough, the two of you had vanished."

Shame makes her face take on a splotchy hue. Ellaria tucks an errant strand of hair behind Sansa's ear.

"Foolishly," Sansa says. She has the Frey men in the dungeons, the Twins under her thumb, and the northmen at her side, but all was not well. A careless plight and no word left with the sentries—a custom done in any household, from lord to stableboy—put cracks into the foundation of her court, almost tearing it asunder in her absence. She has salvaged what she could, but more problems of intelligibility are sure to come.

"Foolish, maybe, but not _horrible_ ," Ellaria allows. "You only wanted to save your people. That was a noble endeavor. There is no shame in it, Sansa. Noble, but foolhardy. And very young," she adds, an earnest look in her eyes. Her eyes seem to glow, like pools of black fire. "They call your brother the Young Wolf. He leapt into action to save your father, to save you, to save the North. It makes me wonder what they will call you."

Sansa lingers on Ser Brynden's frustration, as if she was speaking an incomprehensible language to him. "Noble only to some," she opines.

"To _me_. To Ser Brynden," Ellaria admonishes. "It was only your methods we quibbled with. Had you send word...perhaps we would've convinced you not to participate. Perhaps we would've jumped into the fray ourselves. Perhaps we would've pulled the Twins apart to help, stone by stone."

"They could not be taken by storm."

"Of course not. The Blackfish would've reminded you of that in his own sweet manner, had the good ser been near."

"Sweet?" Sansa wrinkles her nose, making Ellaria laugh.

"He can be _very_ charming at times, Your Grace."

"I beg your pardon, I seem to have lost my hearing."

"Peace, Sansa," Ellaria teases, warmly. "I only have eyes for another Tully."

"Edmure?" Sansa jests, feigning ignorance. "Fine, you have my blessing, but beware. My uncle can't stop mooning over the Lady Roslin—"

Ellaria groans. "Oh, enough!"

Sansa graciously relents. "You only have eyes for me?" She asks, delighted. A step above the floor, Ellaria smirks down at Sansa.

"For you and my dashing prince. You may know him. He has a head the size of the Citadel's chandelier."

_You may paint me in any manner of dress you please._ "The one that makes ribald suggestions in mixed company?"

"That's the one," Ellaria agrees, eyes sparkling. Sansa's heart feels fit to burst. She's _missed_ this. Time with Ellaria feels like moments stolen, moments held dear and secret and brilliantly lovely. The intimacies are unlike none other, save for the snatches of time spent with their prince.

"I missed you," Sansa admits with a satisfied little sigh, and Ellaria smiles.

"I missed _you_ , my love."

They're sharing breaths now, near enough to kiss and little reason _not_ to indulge, but Sansa wonders if the matter is resolved, and says so.

"From now on, I must accept all the costs that accompany you and that crown," Ellaria elaborates, a line of worry resting on her brow. She strokes a thumb just below Sansa's eyes, the touch so light and delicate that it makes gooseflesh rise on Sansa's body. "It seemed like a song rather than a...greater duty thrust upon you. I underestimated the dangers, Sansa. I miscalculated. Even _I_ am not worldly enough to know everything there is to know in the Seven Kingdoms. Beyond Dorne, I am a lay person, a mere outsider to your river lords, and a jest to your northmen."

"They will _not_ jest about you in my hearing," she vows, hotly.

She hears Joff's voice in her head. _You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes_ , he screamed at Tyrion after his uncle dared to step in and stop the beatings, even when the court did not. How better to ensure your word and will were obeyed? Take out the naysayer's tongue.

"Men gossip like old women," Ellaria opines, shrugging, "and tongues wag. This is the way of the world."

The thought of the Greatjon whispering secrets to Blackwood like Jeyne Poole whispered and giggled and blabbed to Sansa is enough to smoke out the ire and banish Joffrey from her head. She must be kinder. She has to be _better_ , even if the temptation to be indecorous is strong and unwieldy.

"You're one of my dearest..." She trails off, searching for the right styling. _Friends?_ _Lovers?_ At times, Ellaria and Oberyn seem to defy all description, all convention. "You're one of... _mine_ ," she finishes, quietly, "and I'll keep you in the know. Jeyne made me promise to _try_ not to be foolish."

It's an appropriate compromise. As a queen, her life will always be in danger. Leaving with the Brotherhood without a word did more harm than good. This way, both eventualities are addressed. Ellaria (and others, like the Blackfish) will know all her plans, and Sansa will act smarter.

 _All may never be well_ , Sansa decides, relieved, _but perhaps it—and I—will be happier._

"And I will recognize your obligations for what they are," Ellaria promises. "There is much I need to learn about the North. You can show me."

"I'll give it a _try_ ," Sansa suggests, stealing slyness easier seen in Ellaria herself, "but you're so terribly _southron_ , Ellaria, whatever will I d—"

She doesn't finish the thought. Laughing, Ellaria's already reeling her in for a kiss, and soon enough, her words are nothing but the wind.

* * *

Safe and warm in her bed, Sansa lies on her side, eyes shut, drifting betwixt waking and sleep. She believes she is still dreaming, but the phantoms within the dreams are for once kind. And familiar. No nightmares are to be found here, even if the dreamwine sits unopened on her vanity.

"...happy you've made up?" A voice drawls.

"Very much, my love. The same _should_ be said of you and I." The other voice is higher, but stern.

Sansa hears a sigh. "I will not disappear like that again, Ellaria. You have my word."

 _It seems like another accord has been reached_ , Sansa muses, drowsily, although she's all missed the terms that were hammered out and haggled about in her absence. The idea is enough for her to wonder about the details, though. They've built a life together over the years, made many children together, traveled many places in the world together. She needn't have worried so much. _He always vows never to leave Ellaria._

"Oh, you may," Ellaria counters, closer now. She finds a seat near Sansa on the bed, and brushes Sansa's hair from her face. "But she and I agreed. If I am informed _before_ you do anything so stupid, shortsighted, and ridiculous again, I have no reason to be angry with either of you, do I?"

Oberyn laughs, sounding surprised. He sits at the foot of the bed, knee brushing along the sheets covering Sansa's feet. "None whatsoever."

"Yet another one of her ideas, mind you."

"Mind me? I've already seen her cleverness. She regularly beats me at _cyvasse_."

"You've let me win," Sansa mumbles, and they jump. She opens her eyes, locating a blurry Oberyn. He shoots her a quick smile.

"You should be asleep, my love," the prince advises, features swimming in and out of focus. "You see so little of it lately."

Sansa isn't fast enough to catch him if he decides to move, but he obligingly takes her outstretched hand, and doesn't get off the bed.

She has both of them in her rooms, both of them in her _reach_ , and Seagard is still sleeping. The sky beyond the windows is pitch black, the stars and the moon offering the only sources of light. "Stay," Sansa breathes out, and Oberyn's grip on her fingers tightens a fraction. "Both of you."

"For now," says Ellaria.

"Forever," sighs Sansa, but she's too far gone to hear the answers, if there are any to be heard at all.

She has her answer in the morning, thoughts of impropriety and etiquette and courtly ritual are far from her mind. _They stayed_. When she wakes again, properly this time, the bed is crowded and warm. Still asleep, Ellaria faces Sansa, legs intertwined with hers and features relaxed, looking radiant in the sliver of sunlight that the canopy bed allows. Oberyn's wrist, Sansa sees, hangs over Ellaria's waist, but the width of her body can't conceal the prince's shoulders. Slumbering behind his paramour, Oberyn looks youthful and handsome, the dashing prince that dared to brave a pair of cursed castles for Sansa and sang so sweetly in the face of peril. Sansa watches them, one arm curled under her pillow. The bed feels like a lap of luxury after many nights on the road, shivering uncontrollably under thin blankets and listening to the birdsong above their bedrolls.

Heart impossibly full, Sansa smiles at them and sits up, running her fingers through her mussed hair. She slept...very well, to her surprise. Sansa cannot remember the last morning she felt so well rested. _Long ago in Winterfell, maybe?_ It's enough to make her reluctant to face the day.

A knock on the door disrupts the calm, unraveling the lull like a wheel spins threads. Sansa hastens off the bed to answer it.

"Your Grace," prompts the maid, gaining a confused expression when Sansa blocks the entryway with her body, "how may I serve you?"

"I'll dress myself," Sansa tells her, quickly. The last thing she needs is an ill-timed jest from Ellaria, or a gale of Oberyn's laughter. She pulls her dressing gown a little tighter around herself, holding it closed with one hand. "Could...could you bring up some food so I may break my fast?"

"Yes, of course! It would be my pleasure, Your—"

Sansa shuts the door, winces in sheer embarrassment, opens it at once to apologize to the bewildered maid, and closes it again.

Oberyn's snicker reaches Sansa's ears, and she spins around, a rebuke on her lips.

"Should we go?" The prince asks, barely able to contain his mirth. Standing just in his smallclothes, he's disheveled, so distractingly rumpled that she has to search the ceiling for the words lest she do something stupid, like leap at him. _And what will I do when I get there?_ She wonders, idly. Sansa doesn't know the next steps of that dance, although she has no doubt that Oberyn and Ellaria would be happy to instruct her. "Think of your lords, Sansa. This is a _scandal_." It _is_ a scandal, _is_ a slight on her reputation, _is_ a sally that would put off her marriage prospects had her parents and King Robert and Joffrey remained alive. There's a layer of seriousness in Oberyn's gaze, however, a gravity that cannot be overlooked. They will leave if she asks. There will be no offense, no bandying words in retaliation. It's a sweet thought, but she won't ask. Some matters can no longer be questioned—the color of Sansa's hair, the Stark blood in her veins, the crown on her brow, and all the feelings she has for the both of them.

"Don't go," is all Sansa come up with, despite his japing, and that's just the thing to draw Ellaria up in their bed, blinking and yawning.

"Oberyn has a point, my love," she murmurs, the rasp in her voice making Sansa blush. "We ought not to be seen."

"I don't care."

"You do," Ellaria says, reclining back against the headboard, and Sansa has to concede the point. She _does_ care, but she doesn't want to.

"I do," she grumbles, finding a seat at the foot of the bed. Oberyn sits down next to Ellaria, deliberately giving Sansa a wide berth.

"They'll wonder and talk," Ellaria adds, extending a hand from her perch. Sansa takes it without hesitation, only for Ellaria to use it as leverage to tug her closer. Sansa laughs, but goes, moving to sit at the center of the bed. They make a perfect triangle, one knee each pointed inward and all three in varying states of dress. Sansa's in her bedclothes and a dressing gown, Oberyn is cheerfully without any but very distracting in only his smallclothes, and Ellaria has opted for almost as much modesty as Sansa, save for the thinness of her shift. It's red, but _very_ sheer.

"Jeyne showed you the missive from Blackwood?" Ellaria asks, carefully.

"What missive?" Oberyn asks, glancing between the both of them. He was more isolated in Seagard than Sansa was.

"She did," Sansa answers. Their ease is a fleeting thing, choking on truths, said and unspoken. _Time is short. I must marry. We must go north_.

He pouts now, not wanting to be left out. "What missive?"

"Lord Blackwood proposed a match between his son and I," Sansa explains, watching Oberyn's mirth evaporate. "Hoster. Or Hos, as he prefers."

"You've never met this boy."

"That shocks you?" Ellaria scoffs.

" _No_ , but..."

The maid knocks again. Sansa jumps and hastens to answer the door. When she returns with a generous tray, quiet bickering greets her.

" _Honestly_ , I only meant—!"

"Do not mock me, Oberyn. "

"Breakfast," Sansa interrupts with a pointed look and sets the plates so all can reach. It would make Sansa's mother go gray, spreading all of these crumbs in the sheets...well, likely not as much as the _two visitors_ in her bed, Sansa amends, finding some dark amusement at the idea.

"Blackwood is very prompt," Oberyn observes, a frown on his lips. "It's not as if you're occupied with, oh, _matters of state_?"

"He's wanted to offer since Riverrun," says Sansa, nibbling on a piece of bacon. She's already sure of that. King's Landing showed her just how prized her hand is. Such attention would've delighted and enchanted the girl that went south on the kingsroad, dreaming of the golden children that would be hers once she flowered and wed Joffrey. Today, a queen and the last Stark, it just makes Sansa tired. The potential suitors seem less and less like the chivalrous knights of the songs and more like the rabble in the riot, grasping for things Sansa does not want to or cannot give.

"Certainly," Ellaria agrees.

"It's too bold. You're very busy, with much left to contend with. And we're at war, with little time enough to arrange _anything_ sufficiently."

The last isn't right. Snows still delay their progress, putting off Sansa's grand departure from Seagard, courtiers and foodstuffs and soldiers in all.

"Jealous, my love?" Ellaria quips, drawing Sansa's eyes to her face, then Oberyn's. He scowls, cross.

"Of course I am!" He stabs at a forkful of eggs on his plate, so petulant that Sansa bursts into giggles. They always pull that from her, effortlessly. Here, in the safety of her chambers, the privacy of her bed, her worries don't easily enter. She can forget about the crown on the vanity, the map on the table, the men beyond the door, and the people in the town. She can ignore the weather, the Boltons, and the ruins of Winterfell. She can be that young girl that wears her heart on her sleeve instead of the queen that cannot afford to show much of her hand unless absolutely necessary.

"You cannot duel anyone," Sansa insists, smiling. Ellaria laughs. Oberyn softens, a tender look in his eyes, and kisses Sansa, slow and deep.

"As my queen wishes."

* * *

No one notices the prince and his paramour absconding from Sansa's rooms, thanks to an auspiciously timed session of petitions.

"A late start, my queen," Jeyne Westerling says as she arrives, words pitched low enough to exist only for Sansa's hearing.

There's an argument going on in front of the dais among a trio of brothers over the duties on their fishing boat. The eldest brother demands the captaincy by right of birth, only for the younger ones to launch into a spirited debate over what Sansa _thinks_ is the benefits of a meritocracy.

"The benefits of dreamwine, my lady," Sansa lies, paying little mind Jeyne's gaze on her left side. That gaze never misses much, though. _Careful_.

On her right side, the Blackfish makes a noise of impatience. "Any suggestions, Your Grace?" He asks.

"A vote," she proposes, turning her head slightly to keep their counsel in confidence. "The captaincy to the best suited man?"

"The best liked, you mean," Ser Brynden replies, shaking his head. "The Baratheon quarrel in miniature."

"Well, I am not certain that the eldest is loved by the other men," she points out. "A fishing boat is not a kingdom, ser. Will he be followed?"

He clicks his tongue, eyeing the bickering brothers below the dais with annoyance. "As you say."

Oberyn and Ellaria enter the hall and join the other Dornish. Jeyne leans closer to offer an alternative. "What about a sortition, Your Grace?"

That turns the heads of both Sansa and the Blackfish, the former from the door and the latter from the quibbling family. "Pardon?" Sansa asks.

"Lots," Jeyne explains. "Slips of paper with each man's name on it, with one to be randomly drawn. It's fair, anonymous, and unpredictable."

"I like it," Sansa confesses. Jeyne beams. Maester Manfryd nods, quill poised over a roll of parchment to record her decisions.

The Blackfish strokes his whiskers. "Whoever draws the lot must be a person of authority, so no man will question the drawing, or...fall overboard."

"I assume you mean _me_ , ser," Sansa guesses, rewarded with Ser Brynden's gruff smile. She worried for him after the supposed 'discovery' of her mother in the Twins, but he is as unflappable as ever, dogged as ever, and dutiful as ever. _Need I remind you of our words?_ He once asked.

"Indeed."

"Crewmen of the _Tristifer_ ," Sansa declares, rising and stopping the fight before it comes to blows. They quiet. "My steward has a suggestion."

After that, the morning quickly becomes midday. The court is dismissed, even the lords, even the Dornish. Only the Blackfish and Jeyne remain.

"Have you considered the proposal, Your Grace?" Ser Brynden asks. Silently, Jeyne produces the missive, along with several others.

Sansa picks over her meal, swirling the stew with a spoon. _I should've seen this coming._ The Blackfish steeples his fingers, watching Sansa.

"I don't even _know_ Hos," she says at last, not meeting his eyes. Jeyne pours Sansa a fresh cup of sweet hippocras. "Or the other men." And there _are_ others, likely the group she guessed a few days ago. Four missives lie near Jeyne's elbow, all ostensibly offering Sansa a husband of noble birth.

"You can get to know them," the Blackfish remarks, cautiously. "You haven't made a binding match yet. That's what courtships are for."

Joffrey's courtship was a haphazard one, weighed down by his fickle moods, his mother's meddling, the loss of Lady and the boy, and of course, the untimely death of Sansa's father. Tyrion Lannister's pursuit of her was an offer of an apology for the forced betrothal, followed by complete avoidance that seemed as if it would last until the wedding day. Courting was never anything of consequence to Sansa until Oberyn and Ellaria.

"And if I refuse?" She _could_. She's a queen. She could deny everyone if she so wished it.

The Blackfish looks sad. Jeyne stares into the dregs of her cup. Sansa wants to put all of those scrolls onto a pyre.

"Alliances foster unity, Sansa," he reminds her, gently. "It kept the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands in one piece during the Rebellion."

"They put the crown on _my_ head," Sansa replies, eyes burning. She doesn't want to marry any of them. "I can do whatever I like."

 _It was only my duty_ , Sansa insisted to Ellaria just last night. It seems like some cruel joke to be saddled with it again, and so soon. 

"I'm sorry, dear one. Truly," Ser Brynden admits, looking and sounding even older than he is. Sansa realizes that she does actually not know how old Ser Brynden is. He's younger than her late lord grandfather, but still a veteran of the war against the Ninepenny Kings. Old enough to know her lady mother since she was but a babe, yet still alive when Lady Catelyn died, to his sorrow and shame. "That crown is the only thing keeping the kingdom whole," he explains, quietly. "It's like a tower. Towers cannot stay upright without a strong foundation to hold them from the bottom."

 _The foundation of this tower being my womanly weapon!_ Sansa wants to scream at him. She stifles the words in her throat. The illicit delight she woke up with is fading like a body bearing the brunt of sickness. _I was so happy this morning_ , she reflects, despairing. _So very happy._

She swallows. "If I refuse, what will happen?"

"Nothing...overt," explains the Blackfish, grim, "but men are greedy. Honor has the shortest lifeblood in war. They will not take, but they will covet."

"Covet?" Jeyne prompts when Sansa doesn't answer, an uncertain note in her voice.

_My army will fall back into the weeds._

"Crave. They'll wonder...'why must I fight and die in a snowy wasteland, if I can wed a willing wife, tend to my own fields, and rule my own people?'"

Sansa pushes the stew away with a trembling hand, feeling queasy. "Then they have no honor at all." _Did you not hear my upbraiding of Bracken?_ Sansa longs to ask him. _Did you not hear what Joffrey said to me? Did you not hear that I was almost made into Lady Lannister?!_

"That comes later," the Blackfish disagrees. "For now, the men are patient. An order sweetened by courtesy is sooner followed than one without."

"Why can't I put it off until Winterfell?" Sansa asks, desperately. "Shouldn't I marry in my own home as a..." She fumbles. "A symbol of...morale?"

"No. This cannot be delayed. Not again."

Shame sits on both of their faces, Sansa sees, for reasons yet unknown.

"I must pick one?" Sansa asks, miserably hoping that perhaps a miracle has occurred to change his mind. Stranger things have happened.

He hesitates. Jeyne looks at her lap. "Just hear them out, Sansa. Let them speak to you, write you poetry. They are gallant men, and brave boys. You may grow to like one...but you must pick a husband, now rather than later. Winter is already here, and soon, we're all like to freeze."

* * *

She doesn't seek out Oberyn or Ellaria that night, nor does she sleep. The next morning, by some unspoken cue from the Blackfish or a dose of her own horrid luck divinely delivered by the old gods as a reprisal for all their earlier favors, the suitors descend on Seagard like flies to meat.

"Hoster Blackwood, Your Grace," greets the tallest _boy_ she's ever seen, who arrived yesterday. "You can call me Hos, if you like."

Her lady's armor is primed and ready for battle. The pelt of Grey Wind sits on her shoulders. "Hos," she concedes, and he kisses her hand. He's not unattractive, she observes, trying to see the best in this by old habit. Gangly, tall, and sporting a funny cowlick. "Will you walk with me?" She asks.

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace."

As always, Brienne follows at a respectful distance.

Sansa's opted for a stroll through the town of Seagard, fighting a squirming feeling that arises if she thinks of Ellaria or Oberyn witnessing her walk with Hoster, and the exhaustion worming itself into her eyes. _Oberyn was jealous._ She likes that a little too much, but she supposes it is an indulgence to wean herself off of as winter continues and supplies wane, like lemoncakes. She can love Ellaria and Oberyn all she likes, enough to feel it and be overwhelmed by it like some unholy, sweet pain, but rubbing a potential husband in their faces resembles only a grisly ache.

"Are you enjoying your stay?" Hos asks, breaking the silence as they meander along the waterfront. It's an awkward silence, Sansa notices for the first time. The old Sansa would've already filled it with inquiries into Raventree, Hos's interests, or even his favorite songs, all in an effort to develop a rapport for their shared sanity as a couple, but the new Sansa has gotten entrenched in her regrets, utterly oblivious to everything else.

"Oh, very," Sansa answers, absently, only to wonder if she actually means that. Seagard is comfortable, but is she _happy_?

"It's a lot busier than Raventree," Hos comments, "but I like the quiet. I spend most of my time in our library."

That sparks reluctant interest, more due to its rarity. Boys prefer swords, not books. "You read?" She asks, remembering it is her turn to speak.

He nods, pleased. "Anything I can get my hands on, really. I prefer stories of the Targaryens, though, and the Age of Heroes."

Sansa will not give any leeway to a total acceptance of Ser Brynden's idea, but the blueprints are sound. She can exchange idle pleasantries with Hoster Blackwood all day if she likes. She can dance with him to see if he can put those gangly limbs to good use. She can become fond of him in a distant, polite sort of way, if she forces her feet into her boots and walks down that road. But Sansa can't shake off the malady (the miracle) that's already infected her, working like a slow poison (poultice) clipped from the tip of a (Rhoynish) spear. She has already lost, has already had her heart split in half and eagerly given away, and has already admitted as much to herself. Telling the carriers of both pieces is...well, the harder part.

"...kings in those days," Hos is saying, hopping up to sit on the seawall. "The Brackens were petty lords, only renowned for their horse breeding."

"Oh?" Sansa prompts, beseeching the ocean to show her something interesting. History has always drawn her eye, why can't she just—

"Your Grace!"

Sansa turns, then blinks. A familiar gait and smile have caught her attention, rather than further insight into the past of the Blackwood Vale.

"Prince Oberyn," she greets, elated and worried and floored. Hos hops down to bow. Oberyn acknowledges him with a nod. "What brings you here?"

"You, my queen," he answers, the choice of words making her heart practically _stop_ , "for a decision of state. Might I interrupt?"

The clarification took so long that even a deaf man would've giggled about it, but Hos only smiles. Brienne quirks an eyebrow, watching.

"Until later, Your Grace," Hos calls after Sansa as Oberyn steers her away by the elbow, steps lithe and sure.

"Matters of state?" Sansa asks after they are out of earshot, with just Brienne many steps behind. Oberyn pretends to ponder that.

"Oh, yes. That. The interruption. Well, I am sorry to say the state of our bed is cold...and it matters to me," he suggests, rearranging the words.

She covers her mouth to hide her laughter. _The nerve_. "Oberyn! That's why you came all the way down here?" She demands.

Unrepentant, he grins and shrugs. "Of course. And I wanted to see your...little suitor."

That wipes the smile right off her face. _It was nice while it lasted._ "What do you think of him?" She questions.

"He...knows how to bow, at least," Oberyn answers, judging Hoster from what little information he's been given. Sansa doesn't hear as much gossip as she used to in the Red Keep. Gossip is often _kept_ from her, as it happens. "Though all husbands should know how to kneel to their wives."

"Why?" That doesn't make sense. Not every woman was a queen like Sansa.

"Oh, my love. Your education is _sorely_ lacking, appallingly so. We must remedy that quickly," says Oberyn, cheeky and coy, as always.

_I'll need suggestions. I've never entertained before._

_We'd be happy to show the queen the ropes._

"Before I enter a marriage bed," Sansa murmurs, not missing the gist. She glances at him, longingly. "I'd...I'd much rather be with you and Ellaria." _He would be gentle_ , she thinks, _like his kisses. He would be courteous, like all the men of the songs. He would be loving, and sweet, and kind..._

He stops to face her fully. The skies are clear, but there's a storm brewing in his eyes. "Are you sure, Sansa?" Oberyn asks, all traces of humor gone.

"I am," she answers, drawing in a fortifying breath. The rest is a half truth, a word rearranged as the prince had done. _Want_ encompasses only some of what she feels, but it will just have to do. She can't be brave yet, but the fear is getting close. It'd be any day now that she'd be at her bravest, and then she could tell them. "I want _you_. I want _her_. I'd..." Sansa looks at the sea again, glumly. "I don't want...I don't want their hands on me."

Oberyn hums in acknowledgement, fixing his own gaze on the Sunset Sea.

The Blackfish scared her. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. The words were honest, more honest than she needed. Sansa was perfectly content imagining the best of her lords for weeks—thinking of them as extension of her own father—until a few choice words flipped the world on its head, returning Sansa to the anxiety inducing oblivion that was the Red Keep. _No one will ever marry me for love_ , she told herself once, desperate to build up a thicker skin against the blades that all seemed eager to hurt her with. She now only desperately wants...them, longs to show them how she feels before submitting to a riverman or northman's bed. _No one would need to know about it_ , she reasons. _It'd be our secret..._

She's enjoyed their courtship since Riverrun. Ellaria kissed her (and kept kissing her, and vice versa), Oberyn slyly commented, the three of them shared blankets and stories on the road and engaged in confidences in solars, all culminating in Oberyn's emboldening kisses in the Twins, in the moments where all seemed on the precipice of disaster to Sansa. Ever since Riverrun, they flirted, Sansa blushed, she gained a crown and they a queen, and that was all to come of it, she'd knew, until the other night, when the evening was chastely unwound in their arms, from the hour of the bat to well after dawn. And she's...she's _loved_ them, loved the flaws and favors that made them who they are. _Righteous, kind, and true._ She's already given her heart away to them, left helpless to the pull of its new gaolers. She wants to give everything else away, too, while she still can.

 _Sweet one_ , her father said, in the dwindling days of his life and Sansa's own freedom, _listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong._ That little girl would never believe in what this one wants.

"Tonight," the prince suggests, softly. Seagard has many eyes, she realizes, watching Oberyn retreat to a polite distance. _We must be cautious_.

"Tonight," Sansa agrees.

* * *

More suitors hasten to follow Hos's example. Jeyne Westerling waits further down the corridor as the second one approaches, armed with a scroll.

"I wrote you a poem, Your Grace," Garrett Paege announces, when she permits him a moment of her day. Brienne snorts, unable to help herself.

 _I don't want you_ , she tells him, silently. _Should I draw your lot from my list of suitors, I will return it._

"My," says Sansa after the squire has finished the atrocious sonnet and is eagerly dissecting her reaction. "That was..." _Awful!_

"Father says I have a talent," he informs her, mistaking her brevity for admiration. "I shall write you a poem every day after we are wed."

_Oh, will you now?_

"If you'll excuse me," she murmurs and makes a quick exit, Jeyne and Brienne at her heels.

"Rhyming Sansa with _dancer_ was layman's work, my queen," Jeyne remarks, determinedly trying not to laugh. It doesn't work.

"Jeyne, please," Sansa grumbles, tugging her steward along by the hand.

Lewys Piper puts more effort into his own display of romance. Bearing a tray, he shows up to the sitting room where Sansa sits with her ladies.

"Your Grace," the boy proclaims, "I've brought you a serving of your favorite food! I shall be a good husband, with your every need in mind."

Lemons are sparse in winter, so it cannot be her cakes. Lady Nym covers her mouth, fighting delight like the bravest soldier fights in a war.

"Oh?" Sansa asks, politeness wearing down and down and down. Her suitors are nothing like the riffraff of the Red Keep, but they do annoy.

"Lady Ellaria suggested I make you a bowl of leek soup," Lewys explains, proudly showing the contents of the bowl to the women in the circle.

_Leek soup?!_

Sansa watches the slosh move around the bowl in disgust, seeing no dairy to sweeten its taste or add texture. Claiming a sudden, paralyzing spasm of the throat, Obara Sand excuses herself. The Heddles aren't nearly so subtle—Willow's giggle is muffled into Long Jeyne's shoulder, forcing her older sister to try in vain to control her face. Ellaria Sand is conveniently missing from the room, Sansa realizes, struggling to hide her mirth.

"Thank you, Lewys," she tells him, grasping for diplomacy. "That was very thoughtful. Lady Ellaria was...kind to advise you."

_Lady Ellaria will hear of this charming jape **later**._

Lady Nym disguises a cackle as a cough, albeit poorly. Lady Roslin flees for the garderobe, the smell of the thin, unappetizing soup making her ill.

The rest of the day is not any better. Marq Piper is bolder than his brother, going as far as to say that Sansa embodies his own sigil.

"Ser, you overreach," Brienne warns. Sansa wonders if the lords have insisted their sons express effusive courtesy, after she snapped at Bracken.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Marq concedes, placing a kiss on her hand in apology. "I am but a mere humble admirer of your beauty."

"Don't wed _him_ , Sansa," Brienne grumbles after they are alone. Watching Marq strut off, Sansa gives her a dry look.

"Not for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms, my lady."

Patrek Mallister is a brief and unexpected reprieve.

"Lady Nymeria is quite beautiful," Ser Patrek says, strolling with Sansa around the castle. He no longer looks gaunt and frightened. The Brotherhood is well and away from him, and now he resides in his own home as a free man. It's a heartening sight. "How shall I approach her?" He asks.

"Aren't you supposed to be courting me, ser?" Sansa asks with a perplexed look. _Don't say that, you'll change his mind_.

He grins, unperturbed. "And lose to your real suitors? Hardly."

She glances at him, pulling her arm out of his. "My 'real' suitors?"

"Your Grace," Ser Patrek reproves. "I am not blind. I know who you love." He rushes to clarify, reading horror on her face. Kindness steals across his features, reminding her vaguely of Robb. "Peace, my queen. Be at peace. I will not let anyone know the truth. You have my most solemn vow."

She won't name them, wanting to preserve what little anonymity is left to her, but thanks him nevertheless. He winks.

"Now, Nymeria. I wish to court _her_. What must I do?"

She doesn't know enough about Nym, even after all this time. "Do whatever she asks of you," Sansa decides, thinking. "Anything and everything."

Ser Patrek strokes his mustache, eyes glazing over. "That sounds delightful."

Sansa dares to smile, wondering the outcome of this affair. "But beware, ser. Anger the Lady Nym and you face the wrath of my Dornishmen."

"Your wrath was terrifying enough, Your Grace. I shall take my chances."

* * *

Her final 'suitor' did not send a missive, so Sansa is not expecting him. Before supper, however, Smalljon Umber seeks an audience.

"The servants say you have been harangued all day, Your Grace," Smalljon observes, meeting her in the library.

Sansa's trying to find a detailed map of the Neck, but so far she's been unsuccessful. She gives Smalljon a polite nod. It has only been a day of courtship gestures and she's exhausted. At Father's tourney, Sansa dressed for an audience, liking the attention she received as the Hand's daughter and a stranger to King's Landing. Now, it is all she can do not to saddle a horse and flee to Winterfell alone, even if it will mean that she is alone. _All want me and I want none of them_ , she broods, listless and defeated and despairing. _None but Oberyn, none but Ellaria..._

 _I will see them later_ , she tells herself, searching for good in all her grief.

"They are very eager," is all she will admit. He laughs, a quieter fellow than his lordly, loud, and boisterous father.

"Eager and unknowing and followers of frippery, Your Grace. They do not understand the North as I do."

It's a fair point.

"They seek your hand as well as your crown, my queen," Smalljon warns, "but I do not."

"My crown?" Sansa repeats, focusing on just one word. The rest can be picked over in a moment.

"These rivermen seek to be King in the North. Such is plain to see."

The thought fills her with anger, rippling like a cresting wave. The Lannisters wanted as much from Tyrion after he was to wed Sansa, she assumes. He'd rule Winterfell in her name, while she gave him the half-Stark, half-Lannister babe that would stop the northmen from rebelling ever again.

Sansa shows her hand, unable to catch the words as they leave her mouth. "They will not," she tells Smalljon, "have my crown."

She should've _seen_ this issue already. It puts the suitors into an even more unwanted position. She fought for this styling. She won't lose it.

_Even if this venture is like to crush me..._

"No," agrees Smalljon, gravely. "I will not, either."

Sansa eyes him, searching for deceptions. He meets her gaze gamely, likely preparing a speech to show how different he is. And he does.

"I do not wish to marry you, Your Grace. I mean no offense...but you'll soon understand. I've fallen for another."

_Oh, have you now?_

"Who?" She asks, curious. There are several girls of or near her age in the North, but with the fallout of the war, things may have changed.

"Wylla Manderly," Smalljon answers, smiling at the mere thought of her. Sansa relaxes. "I met her once, when my father brought me to White Harbor. We've written to each other ever since." He towers over Sansa and has a beard like a true northman, but she spots a boyish shyness in him.

"Have you proposed a match?" Sansa asks, examining a map that looks rather promising indeed. She'll bring it with her to her bedchamber.

"Not yet. I am not nearly as bold as my lord father."

"If you are amenable, perhaps I could arrange it for you," Sansa offers, taking Smalljon's arm as he extends it to escort her to the dining hall.

He beams at that, like she's given him the gift to end all gifts. _Definitely boyish_. "You are kind, Your Grace. I thank you."

"If only my marriage were so easy," she murmurs, wistfully. Smalljon seems to only want Wylla, not her inheritance or her lands or anything of the sort. Wylla isn't even the heir apparent to White Harbor, Sansa seems to recall. She has an older sister with that problem, just like Sansa.

"Take heart, my queen," urges Smalljon. "You'll find a man who only has eyes for you. Of this I am certain." Bowing in farewell, he joins his father.

She catches sight of Oberyn and Ellaria with the column, occupying the benches near the back of the hall instead of joining her at the high table.

 _I am certain that it isn't **just** a man I'm after_. A warmness climbs up her throat, nerves score her insides, but there is surety in her steps. _**This** is the road I want._ She finds her seat among her advisors and the Mallisters, briefly getting the attention of the room before the food is dished out.

"Any progress?" The Blackfish asks, monitoring a conversation between Lord Jason and Ser Patrek. Jeyne eyes Sansa, ignoring the milling servants.

Across the room, Ellaria raises a glass to Sansa. Oberyn winks. "There will be," she informs the Blackfish, politely evasive. _Tonight, of course_...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 100,000+ words! Hopefully, you'll all like this one (four drafts later, I'm kind of okay with it and the way the writing came out). I'm getting my subplots in order again, which steal a lot of the focus in this chapter. The word count is a little astronomical, too, but I couldn't really pull any of the scenes and character beats out without feeling like I was missing something.
> 
> Stuff that goes on includes...really tame, non-descriptive smut, sickly sweet fluff, angst, and more politics. Cheers?
> 
> This fic also has a work-in-progress chronology, which I'll post as the "final" chapter after I'm finished with the story, whenever that may be. Some of my calculations make a mess of _AFFC_ and _ADWD_ , but I don't mind. To stamp a date on this chapter in particular, it's been over four months since the Purple Wedding, and five or so since the Red Wedding.
> 
> Enjoy!

The rest of supper passes slowly. Half-listening to a conversation between the Blackfish and Jeyne, Sansa looks over all in attendance. Her father would have one of his servants dining at the high table with him, she remembers, wondering when she should take up the practice herself.

She thinks of Alys and the Heddles in her own company, sewing and chatting. _I have already begun to let them know me._

Sansa watches Gwen as she mingles and japes with the Mallister maids, almost wishing she were capable of the same thing. Gwen's like Arya in that way—she can rub elbows with the Knight of Lemonwood in one moment and strike up a debate with the scullions in the next one. _Arya would be down there without hesitation_ , Sansa knows. Her sister, the friend to all, the one who moved among the smallfolk without artifice. Sansa resorted to Florys Flowers to delay detection in the Twins, but Arya could get so grubby and dirty that visitors to Winterfell mistook her for a pot girl, to Lady Catelyn's dismay. Somehow, Arya _related_ to the servants, the smallfolk, the good people without old names that went back thousands of years. Sansa does not feel that... _pull_ , despite her sympathies for them in this terrible war. She sheltered and soothed, but she couldn't stand to be in their shoes for long. Sansa was always the lady, even as early as three. She knew what her future entailed—it was mapped out for her, clear as day.

 _And now it is poised to be mapped out again._ Sighing, Sansa excuses herself from supper as soon as she can, wanting to retire to the privacy of her rooms. Seagard still has its charms, but the ever rising intensity of the proposals makes her feel as if a noose is forming around her neck. _To think I wanted dozens of proposals, once upon a time, even if there was only one that mattered._ Sansa has a great deal of sympathy for that variant of herself going down the kingsroad in the not-so-distant past, utterly ignorant to all the ways that will turn everything she ever wanted on its head. _It was only my duty_ , she remembers telling Ellaria, implying the acceptance of her crown but finding the words apply to everything—to marriage, to courtly ritual, to all facets of her life. She's now flung so far afield from the girl that wanted golden haired children, but the thought of giving a stranger both her father's seat and the requisite heirs makes her shoulders stiffen up. _It was only my duty . . . duty . . . **duty** . . ._

 _Family comes before duty_. She must remind Ser Brynden of that much, though there is just the matter of...plucking up the courage to do so.

With the noise of the feast fading away, Sansa changes her mind and starts for the godswood. It's evenfall. The old gods are at their strongest.

She hasn't visited a godswood or a sept since Riverrun, too swept up in schemes and daring expeditions and the intricacies of ruling. Her own absence sits oddly with Sansa, like an itch that nags at her, begging for a reprieve. With Brienne shadowing her steps, she enters and finds a seat before the weirwood, drawing her hood up to ward off a chill. The carved face looks back at her somberly, sap red eyes watchful and old.

"Please tell me," Sansa whispers, after she's given as many prayers and thanks that she can think of in silence, per custom. She's lost so many friends and protectors since she foolishly left Winterfell, but the gains sprout and grow like hopeful weeds, curling into the garden with a purpose. _Home_. "I don't know what to—I don't know who I must...pick." Father would've arranged it, and then Robb after him. There's none left but her.

Save for the hiss of wind through the leaves, there's no answer but her name.

"Hello?" She whispers, glancing back to see if it was Brienne who spoke. Sansa faces the tree again, peering more closely at the weirwood.

"Sansa," the tree seems to murmur without moving its weirwood mouth, sounding less melancholy than its face suggests. It even looks...familiar.

"Too much wine," Sansa informs the tree, earnest. Trees don't talk. _It must be the wine, though I had only one cup._ Recognition slipping through her fingers like water, Sansa rests her back against the face, content to remain here in peace for a little longer. The bower is much smaller than Winterfell's, but comforting. She feels the power of the old gods here, dark and present and ancient and nameless and her patrons, every one.

 _These_ gods are not strict like the new. Beyond the taboos of abandoning hospitality rites, incest, kinslaying, and slavery, you are free to do as you please (the laws of men, however, prohibit just about everything else). These gods will not care a whit if she gives all she has to Oberyn, to Ellaria, and well before her wedding night, where she would be lawfully wedded and bedded. The nameless gods will not cringe like the Maiden will, if Sansa forgoes chastity. _So many tried to **take** from me_ , she reflects, preoccupied by her own invitation. _Why must I feel ashamed for **giving** , eagerly and honestly, to **these** suitors?_ It comes down to courage, again. Sansa finds that she has a share of it, if only a thimble-sized portion. The war has asked so much of her, stolen so many people from her, and all ahead of their times—she will not recoil from happiness when it can be found.

Brushing snow from her cloak, Sansa places a hand on the weirwood before she leaves, drawing resolve from the old face. It comes as commanded.

"I will have only...certain company tonight, Brienne," Sansa admits in an undertone once they are inside again. Nerves keep her in place, while anxiousness begs for a step forward. "Bar all others." Brienne usually paces the corridor to pass the hours, she knows, remembering nights where she woke in the darkness and could not remember where she was. Sansa used the footsteps to ground herself in Seagard, in the here and now.

"As you say."

Sansa hesitates, putting weight on the scales of certainty and doubt. She will be discovered, or she won't. The stakes are not as high as they were in the Red Keep, and no more than they were on the run and through every foray around the Riverlands, but there _are_ perils abound here just the same. Rumors can cause damage of their own. "No one must know," she adds, softly. Seagard has no little birds, but servants can see all...

But Brienne is no servant, Sansa knows.

"I never swore to you properly," Brienne answers, "but I do so now. I will always keep your counsel. You have my word."

_One of the truest of all knights I know, and there is no song for her._

"Thank you, Brienne," she tells her, more grateful than Brienne will ever know. She gets a smile in return. "Good night."

* * *

Sansa sets her crown and jewelry on the vanity, her furs near the new fire, and her dress draped over the divan, for the maids to see anon. She puts her stockings among her own sewing for mending, and leaves her boots by the hearth, satisfied to keep herself busy here for awhile. She slips on a new nightrail of dark purple and gleaming silver (Lord Jason's doing, no doubt) that was left on her bed, admiring the work of its seamstress.

If only she and Ser Patrek actually desired each other. _Wedding him solves everything_ , she reflects, absently. _Or Smalljon_.

She pauses for a moment in her nightly routines to stroke a finger along the iron spikes, thinking. Alone, the crown feels no heavier than a book. Beyond the door and among the court, it feels an anvil on a slow descent, inching closer and closer to her spine. Surely Robb felt the same.

The jaunty little knock comes in the hour of the bat. Smoothing down nonexistent creases in her nightgown, Sansa rises to admit them.

"Well, well, well," Oberyn teases, drawing her into an embrace as soon as the door is shut. Some of her fears wither away and die in his arms, leaving Sansa to wonder why she must give all of this up, and soon. He leans back an inch to look at her. "Ellaria, doesn't Her Grace look beautiful?"

"So said the crow to the raven," Ellaria remarks, sitting at the end of Sansa's canopy bed. Oberyn laughs, bringing a tiny smile to Sansa's face.

Holding her hand aloft as if to lead her into a dance or a summons to court, Oberyn escorts Sansa across the room and has her sit next to Ellaria.

"As for tonight," Oberyn begins, now looking rather serious. He paces a short path before the bed. "Ellaria and I have discussed it..."

"Thoroughly," Ellaria adds, idly tracing shapes into the palm of Sansa's hand with a finger. The touch is warmer than the fire.

"And we must ask if you've considered the future, my love," the prince continues. "One of these men will give you a child, the heir to Winterfell."

 _We need to ask Lady Sansa_ , Ellaria once said, adamant to include Sansa in all discussions, _for her counsel._

Now included at their insistence, Sansa does consider it again. _This game is dangerous_ , her good sense screams. _One slip and you are dead!_

 _And the future_...the same future where Sansa is loved for little more than her inheritance, crown, and Stark name? The thought depresses her. She remembers the luncheon with Margaery and the Lady Olenna, and making an acquaintance of the silly cousins that accompanied Joffrey's wife-to-be to King's Landing. The Tyrell girls were all but oblivious to the reality that Sansa was so horribly entrenched in, and that wistful envy returns in full force. She wants the veil of ignorance back, and all its lack of knowledge therein. The girl she was on the kingsroad wore the veil and saw nothing, not Father's on the spike, not the Kingsguard turning blank and cruel, not the king's face when he screamed or turned purple and choked, not the hanged men in the Riverlands with crabapples in their mouths, not Stoneheart, not the dead Lannisters, not the dead Freys...

That future has no room for the love she craves, nothing like Mother and Father's. _I must find it elsewhere._ "I've considered it," Sansa tells them.

"Are you _certain?"_ Oberyn asks, serious as he was this afternoon. His eyes are fathomless, even dark, but not cruel.

A helping of doubt worms its way into her belly. "Do you not..." She didn't anticipate being unwanted, but perhaps she _should've_.

"We do," Oberyn promises, stopping his pacing at once. He crowds closer to the bed, tilting her chin up with a hand so she'll meet his eyes. His gaze is knowing, like he'll pluck her thoughts right out of her head and rearrange them into a better order. With Ellaria at her side and Oberyn standing before her, she feels...safe. "But," adds the prince, amused, "Ellaria wisely pointed out a babe shouldn't come of our attentions, my love."

"Oh," says Sansa, relieved. _Calm down._ They cluck their tongues like a pair of chickens, making her giggle.

"You thought we did not want you, my love? Shame on you," Oberyn chides, feigning affront. Sansa beams at him, unable to stop herself.

 _This is mine_ , she realizes, elated. _Something I want. Something I choose. Something no one can take away from me for as long as I live..._

Ellaria's own smile gets rather sinuous, like she's dying to reveal a secret. Sansa's dreamed of that grin, and the often roguish one of Oberyn's, but the discovery of what lay behind these looks has always eluded Sansa. "Best to show her otherwise, my prince, so there is no confusion?"

"Nothing would please me more," the prince bandies back, and Sansa blushes scarlet. Pleasing _her_ pleases _him_?

Already near enough to the bed, Oberyn leans over to press his lips to Sansa's, although there is every opportunity to decline it if she likes, just there was that special morning. _Should we go?_ He had asked, japing but also sincere. Then and now, Sansa's only welcomed the attention. His tongue slips into her mouth this time, eliciting a _sound_ that's never come from her own throat, seeming less like a whine and more like a groan. _Don't stop_ , it appears to say, now that words and wits desert her. Oberyn draws away with a grin, only for Ellaria to take his place before Sansa can even so much as squirm away in shame and embarrassment. Ellaria's kiss is softer, more purposeful, but equally sweet. Sansa's red in the face again when they part for air, gulp it down, and meet again. She's never kissed them like _this_ —one after the other, and in front of the other.

When the need for breath arises again, Ellaria smooths her thumb along Sansa's cheek, smiling. "You look as red as autumn, my love," she teases.

"That would be the...nerves," is all Sansa dare admit. _And the wine_.

"This would not be so in Dorne." Ellaria seems regretful. "The North is so different from us."

Oddly, the comment's amusing. "We're not _in_ the North yet." She thinks of the Neck, the Rills, Barrowton, White Harbor, and always, Winterfell. She remembers the summer snows, the sharp cold of her home, as well as its hills, rivers, and forests. The Riverlands is a world apart.

" _Everything_ is north to Dorne," Oberyn points out after another kiss. Sansa refrains from chasing after his mouth in favor of staying where she is. He kisses Ellaria for good measure, while Sansa looks on with wide eyes. "We may as well be the Summer Islanders to your lords."

"Are Summer Islanders as merry as you, my prince?" She suggests, remembering the prince's spectacularly dramatic entrance in Harroway.

That makes him laugh. Sansa wonders if her eventual husband will be quite so happy. Likely not. " _Far_ merrier than I," the prince says.

"They love just as freely as Oberyn," Ellaria opines. "In Dorne, it is much the same. Few girls enter the marriage bed as maids, Sansa."

In the North, that would throw any girl into disgrace, Sansa knows. Bandy and Shyra often gossiped about a Cerwyn scullion who adored Cley.

"But _I_ must," she ventures, resigned. _This is the way of the world, as Ellaria has told me, as I have always known..._

"You must," he agrees, keeping his own counsel on the perils of maidenhood, even if the furrow to his brow betrays him. She smooths it away with her hand. His warm gaze meets her own, then, sending the butterflies in her belly into flight. He smiles. "But you shall be loved in other ways."

 _Loved_. She's been bereft of it so long, it seems like a false hope, or a precipice that's just out of reach. "What other ways?" Her voice shakes.

"All of them," Ellaria answers, and draws Sansa in again. This kiss headier than usual, more potent, more like the tingling desperation Sansa felt in the Twins, when kissing Oberyn was both the only thing keeping her sane and likely the last good thing she would ever do if the Freys got to her. Sansa parts her lips in a gasp that Ellaria chases as Oberyn's fingers slide up her leg, cautious. Instead of ripping off her clothes like Ser Meryn would've done, Oberyn inches them higher, enough to show her legs. "If or when you want to stop," Ellaria tells her, sternly, "you _must_ say so."

"I will," Sansa promises, maybe too quickly. Oberyn clucks his tongue again. "I will," Sansa insists, a sliver of steel in her words, and he smiles.

"This way," Ellaria entreats with the flash of a grin, taking Sansa by the hand. Obeying, she moves backwards on the bed and stops in the middle. "Lie back," Ellaria suggests, as if she's offering an opinion on a game of _cyvasse_. The thought is silly enough to make Sansa stifle flustered laughter, and acquiesce. Getting as comfortable as she would before sleep, Sansa sees Ellaria do the same, side by side, then prop herself up on an elbow, so she can lean down like she never can with Sansa's height to kiss her and angle Sansa's mouth however she pleases. _We've never kissed like **this**_ , Sansa manages to think, as Oberyn draws the nightgown higher until it's well above her hips, fingers stroking along her legs and thighs, making her jump. He stills at once, waiting for consent, which Sansa grants, hastily. Each touch and kiss unfolds like Sansa and Oberyn and Ellaria themselves did—slowly, with permissions pulling down the walls guarding their own feelings. Intimacies are offered and eagerly accepted, with each one building up to the next. Oberyn has scarcely touched her below the breast before, but tonight he does, hands stroking her exposed skin below the waist until it's like Sansa's unfamiliarly hot and aching body is a lyre, tuned and strummed to his liking. _Strumming_ , Sansa remembers, finding a brief moment to be amused. _Can't a poor singer do **something** for m'lady high to earn his keep?_ Oberyn had teased her in the Twins.

Now, Ellaria lures Sansa's gaze to hers. Sansa tries to catch her breath, to little avail.

"Oberyn wants to give you a...kiss," she says, tracing a finger down Sansa's cheek. Her eyes gleam with that secret she won't share. It's distracting, almost as distracting as the touch of Oberyn's hand on her knee and higher. "Are you amenable, my love? It is not like any kiss you know."

 _Eager and unaware, but not unwilling._ "I am," Sansa assures, quicker. At Oberyn's look, she repeats the words, exaggeratedly slowly.

Ellaria gives a throaty chuckle. "We'll _see_ who has the last laugh, my loves," Oberyn promises, playfully miffed.

It takes another verbal agreement from Sansa to get him to pull off her smallclothes, and _that's_ when Oberyn kisses her. Sansa jolts up off the bed in surprise, a gasp slipping past her teeth. She feels what can only be his tongue on her folds, stroking and caressing like he stroked his fingers up and down her body, pinning her in place to chase the sensation all the longer—and she _stays_ , unable to part with that delicious feeling. Heat consumes Sansa in its maw from head to foot, growing in strength when Ellaria deftly claims her lips again, muffling the panted breaths that are propelled out of her lungs like rocks from a slingshot. A new jittery tautness straightens Sansa's back, coiling and desperate, just as Oberyn's hand settles at the base of her spine to hold her hips steady. Dizzy pleasure takes over Sansa in a frenetic spiral and whites out the world when Ellaria's tongue slips into her mouth at nearly the same moment Oberyn flattens out his own, with their hands meeting at the apex of Sansa's thighs.

Ellaria's running her hands through Sansa's hair long before she realizes it. Sansa wants to arch into it like a cat, but she feels wrung out and sleepy. "Well done, my love," she quips as Oberyn surfaces but stays put between Sansa's legs. Sansa's flush seems intent on meeting them there. _I haven't even taken off my nightgown!_ A less tired and sated Sansa may have squeaked. "...you've made our wolf indolent," Ellaria is saying.

"That was some kiss," Sansa mumbles, forgetting herself, and the prince chortles.

"Will my queen grant me another favor?"

 _Another?_ "Oh, a hundred favors," Sansa blurts out, and they grin.

* * *

Morning comes and Sansa is still abed, alone and drowsy.

Oberyn and Ellaria slipped out before dawn, offering parting endearments and assurances to see her later that day. Shyness found her again in the wan sunlight, which seemed to charm Ellaria. _Still a maiden in some respects, my love_ , she quipped, and Sansa kissed her for that, for everything.

Oberyn got his favors from Sansa, only to ask others to Ellaria just afterward, impish and avid...then a smirking Ellaria turned the tables on Oberyn, making their prince unravel and groan under her hands, as if the two of them were some lewd show, with Sansa as a wide eyed audience—

A knock to the door drives away all thoughts of last night from her mind. "Will Your Grace like a hot bath?" A maid asks as she steps into the bedchamber, collecting linens as Sansa cinches the dressing gown around her body and eases open the window overlooking the sea.

"I would. Thank you, Lanna."

After her bath, Sansa dismisses Lanna and dresses. She brushes her hair until it shines but opts to leave it down for once, after catching sight of a darkened spot of skin near her throat. _Oberyn's doing_ , she remembers as she places and adjusts the angle of the crown on her brow, blushing from head to foot. The mark is easily concealed, but the memories of how it came to be remain, and languidly linger. She retrieves the pelt of Grey Wind and drapes it over her shoulders. Finally ready to break her fast, Sansa slips out of her rooms. Brienne appears to escort her, looking tired.

"You ought to rest, Brienne," Sansa insists, trying to walk slower. There's something of a skip in her step, and a smile that can't be pushed down.

"After the meal, Your Grace," Brienne concedes, covering a yawn behind her mailed hand, "Podrick will watch over you."

They walk to the hall. The Blackfish nods at Sansa in greeting as she finds her seat, unabashedly eager to eat something. The court offers its salutations from their own places, now free to tuck in. Servants wind around the room like sparrows, hopping and bustling from bench to bench, person to person. Nibbling on a piece of ham, Sansa studies the room from the salt to the high table, just as she did yesterday. The Umber men are shoveling fried eggs into their mouths; Joss Hood offers Gwen a serving of kipper; Roslin Tully looks rather green in the face and declines all but a bowl of porridge; Dickon Manwoody and Rollam Westerling compete to see who eat the most honeycombs; Patrek Mallister seems to be gazing at the Lady Nym's mouth as she reaches for another applecake. _Subtle as an aurochs, ser_ , Sansa muses, only to find her own distraction.

Ellaria feeds Oberyn a grape, laughing when he takes a playful nip of her fingers. Sansa spots a glimpse of his tongue and _stares_ , just a little.

"Your Grace?"

Lord Jason is looking at her expectantly, much like the rest of the high table. Sansa blushes. "My lord?" She asks, embarrassed.

"You must forgive Her Grace, Lord Mallister," Jeyne Westerling pipes up, unfamiliarly bold. "We spent the night going over your maps of the Neck."

"For the march," Sansa hears herself say, bewildered but immensely grateful for the deception. Jeyne nods, features carefully bland.

"Perfectly understandable," Lord Jason answers, missing the lie completely.

"Such a dutiful queen," Oberyn remarks, airily, "to commit so thoroughly to such...exercises. _All night_."

"Hear, hear," Ellaria purrs, and Sansa reaches for her water, if only to cool the blood rushing to her face.

Lord Jason does draw Sansa aside after all the plates are cleared away, however, requesting about an hour or so of her day for them to speak privately. The Greatjon joins them at Lord Jason's invitation, as does Brienne. At Sansa's pressing, she promises to rest after the meeting.

"We have not yet spoken alone, my lord," Sansa observes as the group strolls along the battlements. "You must forgive me for that as well."

Lord Jason waves her apology away. "You are a busy woman, Your Grace." The wind is brisk and cutting, but the group walks on. Below, the Sunset Sea churns, gray and foaming. "We thought it prudent to offer you tidings of the realm," he adds. The Greatjon gives a gruff nod.

"I've had quite enough of the bad tidings, my lord," Sansa admits, despite her resolve to accept whatever comes nonetheless.

Lord Jason inclines his head, regretful. "Aye, but winter has come. Your words do not lie. There is little good left to find."

"Very well."

Lord Jason hands Sansa a spyglass and points to the Sunset Sea. "It is quite far, Your Grace, but perhaps you will see..."

She squints, fiddling with the glass until a shape is located. "A ship?" She guesses, feeling stupid for it and returning the spyglass.

"Not just any ship. It belongs to House Saltcliffe, Your Grace. This longship sails near the Cape of Eagles, yet they do not raid my shores." He points to an immense bronze bell that rests a ways from the group, shining faintly in the sun. It reminds Sansa of the brass in Winterfell's own Bell Tower. "The ironborn have given me cause to ring that bell just once in a century, during Greyjoy's Rebellion. My scouts watch and wait, my queen, but the ironmen give nary a glance to my lands." He shuts the spyglass, grim, and the walk resumes. "That is either very good, or very bad."

"Bad?" She prompts, unable to remember any significant about the Iron Islands. She knows a handful of the lords, and Theon's own family, of course, but little else. Father spoke only in clipped tones of the ironborn in Sansa's youth, and the rest of Winterfell followed that cue.

"The ironborn have just completed a kingsmoot, Your Grace. In such an event, captains can put forth their names to be considered for kingship. Until recently, Balon Greyjoy held the dubious honor of being the driftwood king," Lord Jason explains, while Sansa ponders the ridiculousness of that election and the Greatjon scoffs something uncomplimentary. "When he died, his brothers and daughter, amongst others, vied for the crown. Euron, the younger of the two, has claimed the title of Lord Reaper of Pyke. The Crow's Eye, they call him." Lord Jason looks grimmer than he did before. "He's a dangerous man. He's convinced the ironborn to sail south for plunder, not north, and they attacked the Shield Islands."

"That's close to Highgarden," Sansa recalls with a frown, thinking of Margaery. "Will the Tyrells be able to fight them off?"

"We shall see." Lord Jason does not appear confident, but Sansa hopes that Willas will be able to do something.

The meeting moves on to other problems in the south, some of which do not relate to her kingdom. Storm's End and Dragonstone are held in the name of Stannis Baratheon, though both are sure to fall sooner or later. Lord Redwyne's fleet sails toward Dragonstone as they speak, with Ser Loras in command, while Storm's End is currently besieged by Mace Tyrell. The Wall has been attacked by wildlings, but Stannis's timely arrival prevented them all from getting into the North. The Iron Bank has stopped giving loans to the Iron Throne, all but ensuring a famine. The Faith Militant has been reborn, created by the High Sparrow, the very leader of the refugees that Sansa and her column pretended to be while traversing through the war torn Riverlands. Earlier still, Tommen was crowned king and thus married Margaery in Joffrey's place.

"Tommen's just a little boy," Sansa points out, concerned. If the crown is crushing her, what will it do to _him_?

"His mother is queen regent," says Lord Jason. "It's her we must worry about. She'll run the realm to the ground trying to hold it together."

Sansa is not looking forward to perusing further action against Cersei before she's back in Winterfell, though that may come to pass. "Should any smallfolk ask for shelter from their lands, my lord, please oblige them," she tells Lord Jason, changing her focus. _This war is folly, and a great waste_ , the Elder Brother told her at the Quiet Isle. _The women...maids, mothers, babes at the breast and women with no children...they suffer_.

"Certainly, Your Grace."

Neither Lord Jason nor the Greatjon has spoken of the matches with their sons, to Sansa's relief.

"Tell me of our enemies in the North," she bids of Lord Umber, and he obliges. He speaks of the ironborn victories at the Stony Shore, Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, and Torrhen's Square. _My kingdom has been cut to pieces_. She listens to the Hornwood inheritance dispute, learning of Lady Donella, of Ramsay Snow's marriage and his wife's appalling end. Bran promised to bring her woes to Robb, Sansa discovers, only for Lady Donella to be kidnapped on her return to Hornwood. "The Bastard 'wed' her," Umber snarls, "but Manderly knew the truth, Your Grace. Snow left her to rot."

To rot and suffer worse, she discovers. "She ate her _fingers_?" Sansa repeats, aghast.

"Aye. He's a beast in human skin, Your Grace. He has to be put down."

"He'll meet the same fate as the Freys, my lords," Sansa assures them, drawing their curious eyes.

"What do you mean to do with them, Your Grace?" The Greatjon asks. He has a disbelieving line to his mouth, like he did in the Twins.

 _This one doubts me still_. "They await the block, Lord Umber." A breath is drawn for strength. "The executions will go on after I am wed."

"Beggin' your pardons, but your skinny arms don't look _anywhere_ near strong enough to—"

"Careful, my lord," Brienne snaps, and the Greatjon scoffs again. Lord Jason merely observes, his blue-grey eyes flitting between Sansa and Umber.

"I am not strong enough to wield the sword myself, my lord," Sansa concedes, firmly. Last night has made her bolder somehow, like a skin of bravery has been slipped on below her lady's armor and roots deep. "You're right. Swordplay has never been one of my interests. However, while I am not the Stark you want, I am the Stark you have," she tells him. "And it was my own lord father who used to say that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Our way is the old way, he told us," she explains, as the other three listen. "If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

"You are not a man," the Greatjon points out, making Brienne forget herself and roll her eyes. "That is a man's work. You are made differently."

Sansa ignores that. "I will pass the sentence, my lord, but I ask _you_ to swing the sword."

"You'd..." He furrows a pair of bushy brows, thinking it over. Sansa waits. "You'd make me your headsman?" He asks.

"The Queen's Justice," she corrects, bringing thoughts of Winterfell's future back into her mind, "until a son is born to me. You'd do well to accept, Lord Umber," she adds, colder, electing to be as brusque with him as she was with Jonos Bracken. _Another sharp lesson._ "Was it not I who sprung you from your cage in the Twins?" _You owe me your life, my lord_ , she decides against saying, _and I'm calling the banners._

After a long moment of gaping at her, the Greatjon to begins to guffaw, not offended in the slightest.

"STARK!" He chortles, making Lord Jason smile, albeit cautiously. "You're a wily pup. I like that. Suppose I _must_ accept."

"You will use my own father's steel," Sansa informs him, gesturing to her guard. "Brienne?"

Brienne unsheathes Oathkeeper. Staring down at the sword and its black and red billows on the blade, the Greatjon only has one request.

"Get a new pommel, Your Grace," he urges, as Brienne puts the steel away. "Those weasels deserve a wolf's bite. This lion is nothing to me."

Sansa's more relieved than she can admit. She needs him more than he will ever know. "That I will, my lord," she promises.

* * *

Sansa spends the rest of her morning with Jeyne along the waterfront. Sers Ulwyck and Daemon follow at a distance, with Pod at their heels.

"You lied for me at breakfast," Sansa observes after the idle talk has subsided, sidling a probing glance at Jeyne. "Why?"

"I keep your counsel," Jeyne answers, patting the arm linked with hers. "Whatever that may be."

"What do you think that may be, my lady?" Sansa presses, wanting to tell... _someone_. Keeping the matter to herself is a strain. "Speak freely."

Jeyne is unperturbed, although she lowers her voice and obeys, certain of her course. "The Prince of Dorne has seduced you."

 _And Ellaria._ "Seagard has many eyes and ears," she reminds Jeyne at the same level, "but yes."

"I see."

_Just you and Ser Patrek, or have others noticed?_

"You're a steward, you see everything," Sansa points out, and Jeyne laughs. "You don't...disapprove?" She asks, hesitantly. The Westerlands and the Reach seem the most scornful of Dorne, though the Riverlands and the North jockey for the title, too. They know nothing of Dornish loyalty.

"No!" Jeyne insists, so genuine that Sansa has to smile about it. "If anyone in the Seven Kingdoms deserves happiness, it is you."

Sansa's apprehension thaws like ice in the summer sun. "You flatter me."

"More than your suitors?" Jeyne asks, playfully. It's Sansa's turn to laugh.

"Much more. I'd marry _you_ if I had the choice."

"That would make Robb rather cross, I imagine," says Jeyne, and their smiles are smaller now. Jeyne's wistfulness returns, and she sighs. "I've been watching you fend off the river lords and wondering if it was all my fault." She holds up a hand when an objection jumps to Sansa's lips, as if between them, she was still the queen and Sansa only the lady. "I know better. I do. It was Lord Tywin, and my mother, and Lord Frey, and Lord Bolton, and so many others. I miss Robb. I..." She gazes out at the sea, perhaps as she used to at the Crag, as Sansa just takes it all in. "I loved him. I did. I loved him so much it hurt, and I think he loved me, even if that meant breaking his betrothal, and his word." She glances at Sansa, solemn as an owl. "So I will not begrudge you for your happiness, wherever you decide to find it. Is the prince is kind to you?"

"He is." _And she is._ Sansa wonders if she can ever confide the knowledge of Ellaria in Jeyne. _Someday, maybe_ , she muses.

"Good. Then I need not worry."

Still thinking of their grief, she takes Jeyne's hand and squeezes. "Come to me when you miss him, my lady. I have many happy stories about Robb."

Jeyne curtsies deeply, Sansa tugs her up into a hug, and midday finds them still at the seawall, thinking of all who were lost.

* * *

While Sansa spends her mornings with her bannermen, and her afternoons with the various suitors, her nights now belong to Oberyn and Ellaria.

"Who has put that frown on your face?" Ellaria asks, lounging on Sansa's bed with Oberyn's head in her lap.

"Marq Piper," Sansa admits, irritable and unable to muster up any grace. She bustles around the bedchamber, finding it a better outlet to cool her ire down to an icy countenance than yelling. "He assures me that Winterfell will have no need of me in my father's seat. _He_ will see to everything."

Oberyn huffs in disapproval, though he closes his eyes as Ellaria cards her fingers through his hair, soothingly. "We ought to share that charming jape with our friends, Ellaria. Who laughs about it first?" It rankles them more than Sansa, she sees—Dorne lets its women inherit if they are born before their brothers, she has heard. Girls don't need to fight for their rights, as authority is theirs from birth, depending on the nameday.

"Ser Daemon."

"If only Arianne could hear it."

"With her temper?" Ellaria asks, shaking her head. "Best not."

"And what of _your_ jape with Lewys Piper, Ellaria?" Sansa prompts, smiling a little. "A kindness?"

Ellaria dons a look of lofty derision, not sorry about it at all. "A good squire has an attention to detail. He _let_ himself be led astray."

Oberyn chuckles and snakes out a hand to pull Sansa to them for kisses. She hasn't kissed them since this morning, though it feels like that was a century ago. Sansa leans against the frame after Oberyn has sat back, glad to simply be _here_. She wonders when that moment arrived for Father and Mother, and Robb and Jeyne, where all you wanted to do was spent the few moments you had to yourself with the people you loved.

She supposes she must begin looking at these suitors with greater focus, if she is to actually pick one. It's just...rather difficult, now that Oberyn has of late taken to giving them silly nicknames to make her laugh, like Hos Boringwood, Garrett the Galling, Logy Lewys, and Marq Meddlesome.

"I missed you," she confesses, not bothering to clarify who. It's both, always both. Sansa can't see one without the other. It never fits.

"Sweet girl," Oberyn murmurs. "Think of here. We'll be right here, waiting for you."

"So hurry back," Ellaria hints, and Sansa giggles.

"I _should_ keep you waiting," she declares after a moment's thought, trying a clumsy hand at boldness again. It seems to work, for Oberyn's grin has spread to his ears, and eagerness puts a bright sheen to Ellaria's lovely eyes. Sansa likes them like this—unabashed. "Waiting and wanting..."

Oberyn inches his fingers up Ellaria's thigh, making her shiver. "Waiting?" She protests, but her voice is breathier, less controlled. "For how long?"

"As long as I want," Sansa decides, smiling, and the night is soon underway.

* * *

In the morning, Sansa meets Roslin and Perwyn in the yard. The skies have been clear for days, so the journey to Riverrun will be easier.

"We'll miss your wedding, Your Grace," Roslin frets, biting her lip. Behind Roslin, the honor guard for Lady Catelyn keep their horses well in hand.

 _You'll miss more than that_. Witnessing Father's death made it worse. Sansa intends for them to be far away when the Freys meet the block.

"If I keep you any longer, my lady, Edmure will write me another stern letter." _Send her along, Your Grace!_ Her uncle pleaded yesterday. The Blackfish wrote Edmure after Sansa arrived from the Twins with Roslin in tow, encouraging ravens to fly between Riverrun and Seagard on a daily basis. Roslin's condition is another factor that must be cared for—by Sansa's guesswork, Edmure's wife is only three moons from the birthing bed.

Perwyn's lips quirk up as Roslin beams at Sansa, delighted. "He asked for me?"

Sansa helpfully produces the scrolls for Roslin to keep. _That reunion will be sweet._ "See for yourself, my lady. And safe travels."

A little Frey page—Wendel—joins Roslin in the litter, yet another person Sansa means to keep from the grisly ends of his kin. Perwyn lingers.

"When will it happen?" He asks. They haven't spoken a word to each other since the Twins. Sansa doubts the frost between them will ever melt.

"After I wed, ser."

"What will you do with the bones?"

"Their heads won't be on the walls," Sansa assures him. The Starks of old were fond of that, but staring up at Lord Eddard's and Septa Mordane's made the very idea of putting another person's father up for all to see throw her stomach into knots. Even sitting by at Riverrun, or in the thick of the fighting in the Twins, were trials. "After...I will send the bones to the Twins, for proper funerals." The words sound so false, Sansa realizes, hating that she must say them. It feels too much like Cersei's false courtesy and Joffrey's sneering chivalry, after the veil of ignorance was lifted.

"My father is a bad man," Perwyn says. To Sansa's dismay, he sounds like _she_ did in the Red Keep, desperate and denouncing her own family. "Lothar and Black Walder as well. I supported your brother, even if he made a mistake. I rode over your banner in anger, but..." He looks to his feet. All Sansa can see is a mirror image of herself, searching for the words that will condemn her family and stop the blows from the Kingsguard for another hour, another day, another week. "A broken betrothal is no excuse for what they did." He does meet her eyes now, sad and bleak. _This one will never love me_ , she realizes, aghast. _Never_. "We only wanted to be respected, Your Grace... _valued_ for our service, like your leal northmen."

"You only wanted to be loyal," Sansa concedes, heavily, never pleased to cede an inch to her enemies. Perwyn nods.

"I will not renounce my House," he tells her, "but I do renounce _them_. A crime is a crime. Treason is treason. Just...make it quick, will you?"

 _As quick as the Greatjon can swing the sword._ "I will, ser," she answers, thinking of all the little girls and boys left behind in the Twins. He can't condemn the children, the old, the infirm, or even the ignorant. Neither can Sansa. Only those involved in the Red Wedding must be sentenced.

 _What can I do?_ She longs to ask him, wishing to flee from the moment, from the conversation, from the necessity of the sentencing. _What can I do to make you love me, as others do?_ Nothing, she guesses, feeling glum. She will steal his family away, traitorous or not, and that is unforgivable.

 _Kind_ , Sansa thinks, unhappily. _I only wanted to be kind_.

"Then I wish you good luck," Ser Perwyn answers, bowing. He climbs onto his horse, civil again. "You will need it in all the wars to come."

 _A war you will have no part in_ , she decides. It is the only thing she can do for him, she reckons, save for the comfortable post at Riverrun with his sister, far away from judgment and danger. _You will not lift any steel against the Freys that continue to aid Lord Bolton in the North._ This is the middle ground, the only understanding Sansa and Perwyn Frey will ever reach together. He'll serve, quietly but not happily, loyal but not lively.

 _I want to go home_ , Sansa had once confessed, earning Cersei's annoyed look.

 _You should have learned by now, none of us get the things we want_ , the queen had replied. Sansa never expected to find herself in Cersei's position, where another's life was all but in her hands. He's just as unable to go home as she was, doomed to remain in doubtful company.

"Write to me, when you reach Riverrun," she bids. Perwyn nods. The litter and escort depart Seagard and her court quietly, like a convoy of ghosts.

 _This will never get easier_. "Come, Brienne," she murmurs. Brienne obliges, as always. "I shall pray awhile."

 _Yes, I shall pray for my guilt to go away_ , Sansa reflects, head bowed. _And if it does, I will be pleasantly surprised._

* * *

Walking along the battlements with a missive to open and keen to delay petitions for an hour, Sansa finds the Lady Nym.

"Your Grace."

"My lady. What brings you so far from the training yard?" Sansa questions, joining Nym. She and Obara claimed it for themselves after beating enough men into the snow to make the rest wary. Others, however, expressed genuine interest in learning from the Dornish, much like the garrison of Riverrun. Obara runs drills and manuevers now, Sansa sees, watching the distant figure of Oberyn's eldest pace around sparring matches.

"Ser Patrek and I are playing a game," Nym answers, mysterious and mischievous. "Best you do not inquire further."

"Then I'll heed your advice," says Sansa, amused. _Let them find some measure of joy, whatever form it may be, as I have._

"What news?" Nym asks, gesturing to the scroll in Sansa's gloved hand with a curious look. Sansa breaks the seal and scans its contents.

"Robett Glover is calling for men," she reads, frowning. "Deepwood Motte is still held by the ironborn." Robett pleads with Lord Jason from White Harbor, just as unaware as the rest of Westeros about Sansa's campaign in the Riverlands. Ravens are guarded closely, and scouts even closer.

"Glover..." Nym pauses, likely trying to remember the sigil.

"A silver mailed fist on scarlet," Sansa reminds her, and Nym nods in vague recognition. "His wife and children are captives."

"I haven't killed a kraken yet," Nym muses, drawing her hood up a little, "but my knives are sharp and ready to fly."

"Is that what you want?" Sansa asks, honestly curious. Violence has never suited her, but anger whorls in Sansa all the same, churning as fiercely as grief. The urges are all there, like the temptation—she longed to use that knife from her meals but never quite managed to pluck up the courage or madness to act despite all the dangers that lay ahead of her. She always managed to stuff it back down, burying the impulses as meticulously as she dressed, sang, spoke, and walked. _She has her father's bloodlust. Isn't that something?_ Oberyn had said of Obara, whilst praising Nym's own sophistication and lethality. She wonders if she and Arya would've grown to embrace wilder sides of themselves in Dorne as the Sand Snakes did.

So many are willing to jump into battle, like Nymeria Sand, all in the ways Sansa can't. She doesn't have the wolf blood. But what does Nym _want?_

She ought to ask the same of everyone. What they want, what they need. _Petition the petitioners?_ She wonders, thinking.

Nym considers, pulling her furs closer to herself. Sansa made sure that all the Dornish received adequate clothing for the weather, with the march to the North fast approaching. The cold sits poorly with some and better with others, Sansa has noticed. "I wanted...I wanted to _avenge_ my father, if he failed to kill the Mountain. Obara and I—and my sisters—believe in no other man. He's like no other, Your Grace, but..." A crease forms on her brow. "The Mountain was near to a giant, and my father, well...you've heard him," Nym adds, wry and rueful. "'You are going to fight that?' Lady Larra asked him when I could not speak. Fear had made off with my tongue. 'I am going to kill that', my father answered, and _shrugged_."

Sansa remembers clutching Father's arm when the tilts finally pitted Ser Loras and the Mountain against one another. Ser Loras rode splendidly and won, though Ser Gregor butchered his horse in anger and then advanced on the Knight of Flowers, forcing his grim brother to intervene. She can't imagine the duel that allowed Oberyn to meet them in Harroway, no worse for wear. Her father would not have withstood such a fight, she knows.

"He survived," says Sansa. _While mine did not_.

"He did. Obara and I were relieved beyond our wildest hopes. I do not know exactly what I would've done...otherwise." She smiles, returning to the question. "Now, I want to make him proud. I want to make _Dorne_ proud. I want to make myself into a stronger warrior, so that I may keep my cousins from harm for the rest of my days. I want to see Volantis again. And," she adds, wistful, "I want to see Skyreach and my Fowlers." _Their lust for vengeance fled with the prince's_ , Sansa supposes, thinking of the deaths of the Mountain, Lord Tywin, Ser Amory, and Joffrey. _Or so I hope._

"Jennelyn?" She asks, remembering Nym's complaint against Obara.

"Jennelyn _and_ Jeyne," Nym corrects, a familiar impishness in her gaze, as well as a challenge. "Do I scandalize you?"

"No," Sansa lies, reddening. Time with Ellaria has been...illuminating, though she dares not think of _two_ Ellarias.

Nym laughs. "You lie as poorly as Dorea, Your Grace."

She wants to ask Ellaria and Oberyn about the girls. _I want stories with happy endings._ "You want to make Dorne proud. Helping me...does that?"

"Getting you to Winterfell is the right thing to do," Nym affirms. "And Dorne is better for it. This journey made us all knights, one way or another."

"True knights, I hope."

"True as we can be," Nym amends, a sly curl to her lips. Ser Patrek waits, giddy as a boy. "Dorne has a poor reputation in Westeros, my queen."

"Dorne saved me," Sansa corrects, smiling, "and I am better for it. The North is better for it."

Nym curtsies, Ser Patrek bows, and Sansa departs with a little skip in her step. Her _favorite_ suitors await, the truest knights in the whole kingdom.

* * *

"Tired?" Ellaria prompts in greeting, when Sansa enters her own bedchamber and pulls her crown off her head to set it on the vanity. The...intrusion into her rooms isn't an intrusion at all, she notes, enjoying the way that Ellaria and Oberyn have a tendency of making themselves comfortable when they are allowed to. They never _push_ or demand, but merely offer, until it is Sansa in pursuit, chasing rather than fleeing. She was quarry in King's Landing, a game for an endless retinue of hunters. On the road and beyond, striving ever north, she isn't hunting—she's running _alongside_ a pack, equal and wanted and protected and eager and given whatever she likes. She kisses Ellaria, _liking_ the appreciative sigh that she evokes.

"Weary," she admits, lying down and closing her eyes. She's put off petitions until tomorrow, more interested in returning to her rooms.

"Tell me about it," Ellaria suggests, unraveling the plaits in Sansa's hair.

"The North is in pieces," Sansa mumbles, trying not to let the ministrations lull her to sleep. "The ironborn linger in my lands like roaches, the Boltons plan to marry my 'sister'..." _I need to save her, whoever she may be. All hope was lost when the Dornish spirited me from Joffrey's wedding. Perhaps I can do the same for this girl._ Sansa's thoughts drift back to Lady Donella and Ramsay Bolton. _I am too late to save his **first** wife, but his second..._ "We're marching into danger." And it's a _long_ march. Hundreds of leagues, Sansa seems to recall, with uncertainty around every corner.

"We are always marching into danger," Ellaria points out, as Sansa opens her eyes again to see the sternness in Ellaria's gaze. " _No one_ is safe."

"Just so," says Sansa, and Ellaria smiles, running her fingers through Sansa's hair. It's several moments of peace and quiet before Sansa remembers she had a question to ask. "Nym says I lie as badly as Dorea," she adds, watching a new lightness flicker to life in Ellaria's eyes. "What do you think?"

"There is _some_ similarity, I'm afraid."

"Tell me about them," Sansa suggests, remembering a handful of stories that Ellaria told on their sea voyage.

"My Elia has come to be called Lady Lance," she begins without hesitation, proud and warm, and Sansa listens.

Prince Oberyn finds them just as Ellaria finishes recounting some Obella's adventures with Trystane and Myrcella Baratheon. "Telling tall tales, my love?" He accuses, kissing Ellaria and Sansa in turn before joining them in a heap on the bed. They laugh as he ungallantly pokes knees and sides and ribs until he's pleased with his lot. "Pardons, pardons," the prince insists, worming his way between them and settling down. "Ah, much better."

"Comfortable?" Sansa asks, amused. Hair and clothes mussed from all his fidgeting and fussing, Oberyn adopts a lofty air.

"Very. Two beautiful women lie in my bed. What more could a man want?"

"This is _my_ bed."

"Age before beauty, Your Grace."

"If the two of you are _quite_ finished..." Ellaria sighs, fond but exasperated.

"Sansa," the prince declares, loftiness shifting into a familiar cheek, "we've neglected our lady."

Sansa smiles. So much has changed, yet so much has not. They manage to lure cheer out of Sansa when only grimness can be found, and offer comfort when despair takes an implacable hold. _They let me be Sansa_ , she realizes, _when I must be a queen and protector to all others._

"She isn't a lady, my prince," Sansa reminds him, mockingly severe in the face of such an error. "She's a knight."

_My knight._

"Then we must be her squires," Oberyn counters, unruffled, and reaches up to divest Ellaria of her shawl. "Help me remove her armor?"

They never ask for Sansa to do the same. They've touched and kissed, caressed and stroked, though Sansa hasn't been urged to remove her clothes once. _Yet another courtesy_ , she muses, again deciding to keep her nightgown on. _Yet another fortifying stone in my castle sized trust in them._ She's seen Ellaria in nothing at all, and Oberyn down to his breeches, enough to think about their bodies at rather...inopportune moments.

"I _have_ fought valiantly," Ellaria agrees as Sansa unclasps her earrings and necklace. Sansa crosses the room to place them with her crown.

"In what war?" She asks, amused, joining them on the bed again.

"Well—" Ellaria breaks off when Oberyn guides Sansa's hand between Ellaria's thighs. "I—"

"You?" Oberyn teases, low and delighted.

"Our knight is unwell," Sansa opines with a small smile, imitating Oberyn's ministrations with fledging confidence. She's always been a dutiful learner. Getting acquainted in their bodies has been an enlightening experience, and more satisfying than she ever thought to hope for or even think of. She blushes through most of it, and ogles through the rest, yet they always have more to teach, more to share, more to offer. _I can touch that, if I wanted_ , Sansa finds herself thinking from time to time. _Or kiss that, if I so desired_. Sometimes, if she's feeling nervous or shy, it will just be kisses, and it's only Sansa's eyes that do the devouring. Other times, it is that and more, and Sansa is drawing pleasure from one or the other and following sighs and moans and hushed voices as cues, eager to excite them as much as they do for her. Oberyn hasn't lain with her in the way Sansa always expected or feared, however, holding firm to their earlier conversations about her marriage. "Should we summon a maester?"

"Enough of that," Ellaria scolds, struggling to appear unaffected as Oberyn rolls onto his back and settles her astride his hips. Sansa kisses her cheeks and then her lips, cupping Ellaria's jaw with a hand. "Put those silver tongues of yours to better use," Ellaria insists when she can.

"Very well." Sansa directs the question to Oberyn, smiling, borrowing some of their Dornish daring. "What do you want, Oberyn?"

"At the moment, I want for nothing," the prince answers with the slightest grind of his hips, mirthful and affectionate. Ellaria gasps.

Settling behind Ellaria, Sansa sweeps some of her long dark hair from one shoulder to expose the skin that's been hidden away and press her lips to it. "And you, Ellaria?" Sansa asks, chasing the fluttering thrill that the two of them wring out of her so easily. Attachment and hope follow the thrills, certain as rain. Sharing a bed somehow makes Ellaria more honest, but not even Sansa can predict what comes out of her mouth _next_.

"I don't want you to marry anyone," she sighs out, sending chills down Sansa's spine, "but Oberyn."

The bedchamber falls silent, all movement freezes, and a pair of eyes widen, until a more expected sound fills the space: Oberyn's laughter.

"Oberyn!" Ellaria protests, whacking him in the chest, but even that doesn't stop him.

Sansa's trying in vain not to smile when he grabs her wrist and chokes out between wheezes: _"your King in the North?"_

That sets her off, too. The images come unbidden—Oberyn covered in a heap of furs and a circlet of bronze and iron, Oberyn sitting awkwardly in the high seat, garbed in a ridiculous combination of her colors and his own, a garish orange blending badly with grey and white, Oberyn walking the halls and sticking out like a sore thumb. The vision mixes with an approximation of herself in Dorne with the same comical oddness—Sansa in silks cut in the Dornish style, Sansa getting burned like a lobster, Sansa striding over the sands, ungainly and lead-footed. The juxtaposition is so...strange, if no small measure of ridiculous. He's so southron, so _Dornish_ , and the only thing Sansa wants to be any longer (in spite of her lingering fondness for songs and pretty dresses and courtesies) is a true northern girl, Lord Eddard's last living daughter, the blood of Winterfell.

They're opposites, at least on the surface. _Within, however..._

"Sansa!" Ellaria complains, reaching back to jab a finger into her ribs. Sansa covers her mouth with a hand to stifle her giggles.

"I'm sor—"

"You _aren't_ ," Ellaria accuses, after their mirth subsides. She slides off Oberyn and the bed, to their mutual dismay. "And I meant what I said."

"Explain yourself, please," Sansa suggests, now determined to pay attention. Supine, Oberyn observes in deliberate silence, curious.

"You've said again and again that you don't want a husband that will speak over you," Ellaria points out, leaning against one of the bed posts and crossing her arms. "You want a husband that will be kind to you, that won't usurp your claim to Winterfell. He lies before you, Sansa."

She glances at Oberyn. He looks...thoughtful. She wishes she could peer into his mind and see how it worked, just for this one conversation. Like his stratagem for _cyvasse_ , however, Sansa's at a loss. Does he actually want to marry her, or will he simply offer to placate both of them?

"You know he can get a child on you," Ellaria adds, losing some of her sternness. "Far be it from me to say he doesn't have a knack for it."

"I'm right _here_ ," Oberyn grumbles, though the twinkle to his eye betrays his amusement, his gall. "Am I just a cock to you, Ellaria?"

"Well..." She trails off, giving him a leer. He smirks back.

"That's all I've wanted," Sansa admits, but has to rush to elaborate on her train of thought before they laugh at the poor choice of words. Oberyn's expression does not bode well for her pride, and Ellaria is already smiling. "What I _meant_ was...I'm the last one," she continues, unwilling to let herself be sad about it right now. Sadness will be better dealt with in Winterfell, where her ghosts wait for her. "The last Stark. When I thought...when I _hoped_ the Tyrells would marry to Willas, I...I thought about naming my sons after my father, and my brothers. If I had a daughter of my own..." Sansa explains with a longing sigh, lowering her eyes to the sheets. She's _always_ wanted to be a mother. "...she would be named Arya," she finishes. She's never admitted that aloud to anyone, seeing no one fit to know her most secret wants until the two of them came around.

The idea is too tempting by half, Sansa sees, hesitant to accept something that seems so simple, so promising. _I've been burned before._ Oberyn has already proved to be the dashing prince of her earliest, childlike dreams. He's protected her, comforted her, _saved_ her from the clutches of the Lannisters and Freys. He understands the sometimes heedless _need_ of hers to seek vengeance and justice. He's kind, gentle when the moment calls for it, never pushes for more than Sansa is willing to give, and cares not a whit for a girl juggling a king's responsibilities. And with him comes Ellaria, a woman that cannot be written off as simply the prince's lover. _She's_ kind, _she's_ caring, and she knows the value of a gentle heart and the merits of mercy. She makes Sansa smile, she knows how to pull Sansa from the shadows of grief and loneliness, and she _sees_ Sansa, not the crown. She saw her in King's Landing when no one else cared to, saving Sansa from the miserable fate of becoming the newest Lady Lannister.

And she _loves_ them. With one comes the other, wedged so intricately in Sansa's heart that she doubts she'll ever be able to get them out.

The last vestiges of resistance to the idea collapse in on themselves, defeated. _One slip and you are dead_ , that unruly voice reminds her again, but it's faint, infirm, and fading. _This is something I want. Something I choose. Something no one can take away from me for as long as I live..._

"I didn't think I would..." Sansa sucks in a breath, restless. She can't deny her feelings any longer. "I-I didn't think I would be able to have you."

"You can," Oberyn murmurs, sitting up just to kiss her, and she has his answer. "You will, Sansa," he says between kisses, and she _aches_.

Ellaria brushes a thumb below Sansa's eyes, catching the first tears before they fall. "Oh, my love," she hums, gently, as if nothing momentous has happened and this were just another ordinary evening with them in her bed. _As if that will ever be ordinary._ "Don't fret. Our prince can drum up a better proposal than that!" The shift in tone is enough to make Sansa give a watery laugh, especially after Oberyn squawks in half protest, half agreement. Sansa's still trying to rationalize the shift that's made a something out of almost nothing—Oberyn _does_ want to marry her.

"I can," he insists, scrambling out of the sheets with the haste of a madman. Ellaria laughs, taking a jaunty seat next to Sansa.

"This better be good, Oberyn," she teases, sliding an arm around Sansa's waist. Sansa leans into her body. "You're proposing to a queen, after all."

Sansa beams, obligingly offering her hand when Oberyn kneels in front of her. He takes her hand in both of his, supplicant as any septon.

"Sansa of House Stark," Oberyn begins. A wide smile sits on his lips, warm and _sweet_. "I _humbly_ ask you for your hand in marriage." He kisses her fingers, and goes on. "I can offer you no lands, however. No wealth, no titles, no advantages save for the swords of Dorne, should you have need of them. I am a second son, a mere shadow of my elder brother. What I _can_ offer you is this—my heart. I confess...it wanders from time to time. This is not a Dornish way. It is mine and it is Ellaria's, but I will always come back to you, as I will always come back to her." He pauses, letting it sink in. This is the first time she's heard from him directly that he's strayed from his paramour to other lovers, though it doesn't bother Sansa as much as she expected. He's made promises and kept them. Returning to her and Ellaria looks to be an ironclad one, the strongest of all. "I will never lie to you again," Oberyn affirms. "I will never raise a hand to you. I will see you to your home and stay there, for as long as you have need of me."

 _You can’t make me_ , Sansa had protested when the news of her betrothal to Tyrion reached her at last.

 _Of course we can_ , the queen had replied, indifferent and disdainful and cruel. _You may come along quietly and say your vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a spectacle for the stableboys to titter over, but you will end up wedded and bedded all the same_.

Sansa almost wants to know what Cersei would say to this, but the larger part of her does not. She won't let the queen ruin it, real or imagined.

A second son with no prospects would've been swiftly denied by Sansa's father and brother, but the world shifted. Times are different, and Sansa is alone. There is no higher authority but her. "I accept," she answers, squealing when he surges up to pepper her face with kisses. " _Oberyn!_ "

Eyes bright, Oberyn slips back into his spot on the bed, looking rather pleased with himself.

It's Ellaria's turn after him, leaving Sansa to ponder some vows of her own. _I shall say mine after the wedding, when it cannot be undone_.

"And wherever _I_ happen to wander," Ellaria Sand adds in a murmur, resting her forehead against Sansa's after her own kisses, "I will find you and our prince again, always." She and Ellaria will never be wed, but the promise alone is heady and potent all the same, a reminder of their own connection since they fled King's Landing and dove into the bedlam left behind the in the Riverlands. It's unquestionable, Sansa reasons, that Ellaria is involved. She's as tied to them as they are to her and will be to each other. Sansa sees no other way, no other choice, no other life.

"Always," Sansa agrees and puts the worries over her decision, her bannermen, her kingdom, and her people _off_...at least until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little foolhardy of Sansa to accept, but the girl wants a love match. Can you blame her? (▰˘◡˘▰) 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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